MACMILLAN'S   STANDARD    LIBRARY 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 


* 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 


BY 
WILLIAM  ALLEN   WHITE 

AUTHOR    OF    "STRATAGEMS    AND    SPOILS,"    "  THB 
COURT   OF   BOYVILLE,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYBIGHT,   1909, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.  Published  July,  1909.  Reprinted 
July,  August  twice,  September,  October,  November,  Decem 
ber,  1909  ;  August,  October,  1910;  February,  1911;  June,  1912. 

Special  edition  published  October,  1909. 


J.  8.  Cashing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


c 

/M 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


249016 


BOOK  I 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  woods  were  as  the  Indians  had  left  them,  but  the 
boys  who  were  playing  there  did  not  realize,  until  many 
years  afterwards,  that  they  had  moved  in  as  the  Indians 
moved  out.  Perhaps,  if  these  boys  had  known  that  they 
were  the  first  white  boys  to  use  the  Indians'  playgrounds, 
the  realization  might  have  added  zest  to  the  make-believe 
of  their  games ;  but  probably  boys  between  seven  and 
fourteen,  when  they  play  at  all,  play  with  their  fancies 
strained,  and  very  likely  these  little  boys,  keeping  their 
stick-horse  livery-stable  in  a  wild-grape  arbour  in  the 
thicket,  needed  no  verisimilitude.  The  long  straight 
hickory  switches  —  which  served  as  horses  —  were  ar 
ranged  with  their  butts  on  a  rotting  log,  whereon  some 
grass  was  spread  for  their  feed.  Their  string  bridles 
hung  loosely  over  the  log.  The  horsemen  swinging 
in  the  vines  above,  or  in  the  elm  tree  near  by,  were 
preparing  a  raid  on  the  stables  of  other  boys,  either  in 
the  native  lumber  town  a  rifle-shot  away  or  in  distant 
parts  of  the  woods.  When  the  youngsters  climbed  down, 
they  straddled  their  hickory  steeds  and  galloped  friskily 
away  to  the  creek  and  drank;  this  was  part  of  the  rites, 
for  tradition  in  the  town  of  their  elders  said  that  who 
ever  drank  of  Sycamore  Creek  water  immediately  turned 
horse  thief.  Having  drunk  their  fill  at  the  ford,  they 
waded  it  and  left  the  stumpy  road,  plunging  into  the 
underbrush,  snorting  and  puffing  and  giggling  and  fuss 
ing  and  complaining  —  the  big  ones  at  the  little  ones 
and  the  little  ones  at  the  big  ones  —  after  the  manner  of 
mankind. 


2    •*'•'••  '•  A  "-CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

When  they  had  gone  perhaps  a  half-mile  from  the 
ford,  one  of  the  little  boys,  feeling  the  rag  on  his  sore 
heel  slipping  and  letting  the  rough  woods  grass  scratch 
his  raw  flesh,  stopped  to  tie  up  the  rag.  He  was  far  in 
the  rear  of  the  pack  when  he  stopped,  and  the  boys,  not 
heeding  his  blat,  rushed  on  and  left  him  at  the  edge  of  a 
thicket  near  a  deep-rutted  road.  His  cry  became  a  whim 
per  and  his  whimper  a  sniffle  as  he  worked  with  the  rag  ; 
but  the  little  fingers  were  clumsy,  and  a  heel  is  a  hard 
place  to  cover,  and  the  sun  was  hot  on  his  back  ;  so  he 
took  the  rag  in  one  hand  and  his  bridle  in  the  other,  and 
limped  on  his  stick  horse  into  the  thick  shade  of  a  lone 
oak  tree  that  stood  beside  the  wide  dusty  road.  His  sore 
did  not  bother  him,  and  he  sat  with  his  back  against  the 
tree  for  a  while,  flipping  the  rag  and  making  figures  in 
the  dust  with  the  pronged  tail  of  his  horse.  Then  his 
hands  were  still,  and  as  he  ran  from  tune  to  tune  with 
improvised  interludes,  he  droned  a  song  of  his  prowess. 
Sometimes  he  sang  words  and  sometimes  he  sang  thoughts. 
He  sank  farther  and  farther  down  and  looked  up  into  the 
tree  and  ceased  his  song,  chirping  instead  a  stuttering  fal 
setto  trill,  not  unlike  a  cricket's,  holding  his  breath  as 
long  as  he  could  to  draw  it  out  to  its  finest  strand  ;  and 
thus  with  his  head  on  his  arm  and  his  arm  on  the  tree 
root,  he  fell  asleep. 

The  noon  sun  was  on  his  legs  when  he  awoke,  and  a 
strange  dog  was  sniffing  at  him.  As  he  started  up,  he 
heard  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  feet  in  the  road,  and  saw  an 
Indian  woman  trotting  toward  him  on  a  pony.  In  an  in 
stant  he  was  a-wing  with  terror,  scooting  toward  the 
thick  of  the  woods.  He  screamed  as  he  ran,  for  his 
head  was  full  of  Indian  stories,  and  he  knew  that  the 
only  use  Indians  had  for  little  boys  was  to  steal  them 
and  adopt  them  into  the  tribe.  He  heard  the  brush 
crackling  behind  him,  and  he  knew  that  the  woman  had 
turned  off  the  road  to  follow  him.  A  hundred  yards  is  a 
long  way  for  a  terror-stricken  little  boy  to  run  through 
tangled  underbrush,  and  when  he  had  come  to  the  high 
bank  of  the  stream,  he  slipped  down  among  the  tree  roots 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  3 

and  tried  to  hide.  His  little  heart  beat  so  fast  that  he 
could  not  keep  from  panting,  and  the  sound  of  breaking 
brush  came  nearer  and  then  stopped,  and  in  a  moment  he 
looked  up  and  saw  the  squaw  leaning  over  the  bank, 
holding  to  the  tree  above  him.  She  smiled  kindly  at 
him  and  said  :  — 

"  Come  on,  boy  —  I  won't  hurt  you.  I  as  scared  of  you 
as  you  are  of  me." 

She  bent  over  and  took  him  by  the  arm  and  lifted  him 
to  her.  She  got  on  her  pony  and  put  him  on  before  her 
and  soothed  his  fright,  as  they  rode  slowly  through  the 
wood  to  the  road,  where  they  came  to  a  great  band  of 
Indians,  all  riding  ponies. 

It  seemed  to  the  boy  that  he  had  never  imagined  there 
were  so  many  people  in  the  whole  world  ;  there  was.  some 
parley  among  them,  and  the  band  set  out  on  the  road  again, 
with  the  squaw  in  advance.  They  were  but  a  few  yards 
from  the  forks  of  the  road,  and  as  they  came  to  it  she 
said:  — 

"Boy — which  way  to  town?" 

He  pointed  the  way  and  she  turned  into  it,  and  the 
band  followed.  They  crossed  the  ford,  climbed  the  steep 
red  clay  bank  of  the  creek,  and  filed  up  the  hill  into  the 
unpainted  group  of  cabins  and  shanties  cluttered  around 
a  well  that  men,  in  1857,  knew  as  Sycamore  Ridge.  The 
Indians  filled  the  dusty  area  between  the  two  rows  of  gray 
houses  on  either  side  of  the  street,  and  the  town  flocked 
from  its  ten  front  doors  before  half  the  train  had  arrived. 
The  last  door  of  them  all  to  open  was  in  a  slab  house, 
nearly  half  a  mile  from  the  street.  A  washing  fluttered 
on  the  clothes-line,  and  the  woman  who  came  out  of  the 
door  carried  a  round-bottomed  hickory-bark  basket,  such 
as  might  hold  clothes-pins.  Seeing  the  invasion,  she  hur 
ried  across  the  prairie,  toward  the  town.  She  was  a  tall 
thin  woman,  not  yet  thirty,  brown  and  tanned,  with  a 
strong  masculine  face,  and  as  she  came  nearer  one  could 
see  that  she  had  a  square  firm  jaw,  and  great  kind  gray 
eyes  that  lighted  her  countenance  from  a  serene  soul.  Her 
sleeves  rolled  far  above  her  elbows  revealed  arms  used  to 


4  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

rough  hard  work,  and  her  hands  were  red  from  the  wash- 
tub.     As  she  came  into  the  street,  she  saw  the  little  boy 
sitting  on  the  horse  in  front  of  the  squaw.     Walking  to" 
them  quickly,   and   lifting  her  arms,  as  she  neared  the, 
squaw's  pony,  the  white  woman  said  :  — 

"  Why,  Johnnie  Barclay,  where  have  you  been?  " 
The  boy  climbed  from  the  pony,  and  the  two  women 
smiled  at  each  other,  but  exchanged  no  words.  And  as 
his  feet  touched  the  ground,  he  became  conscious  of  the 
rag  in  his  hand,  of  his  bleeding  heel,  of  his  cramped  legs 
being  "  asleep  "  —  all  in  one  instant,  and  went  limping  and 
whining  toward  home  with  his  mother,  while  the  Indians 
traded  in  the  store  and  tried  to  steal  from  the  other  houses, 
and  in  a  score  of  peaceful  ways  diverted  the  town's  atten 
tion  from  the  departing  figures  down  the  path. 

Tfrat  was  the  first  adventure  that  impressed  itself  upon 
the  memory  of  John  Barclay.  All  his  life  he  remembered 
the  covered  wagon  in  which  the  Barclays  crossed  the  Mis 
sissippi  ;  but  it  is  only  a  curious  memory  of  seeing  the 
posts  of  the  bed,  lying  flat  beside  him  in  the  wagon,  and 
of  fingering  the  palm  leaves  cut  in  the  wood.  He  was  four 
years  old  then,  and  as  a  man  he  remembered  only  as  a  tale 
that  is  told  the  fight  at  Westport  Landing,  where  his  father 
was  killed  for  preaching  an  abolition  sermon  from  the 
wagon  tongue.  The  man  remembered  nothing  of  the  long 
ride  that  the  child  and  the  mother  took  with  the  father's 
body  to  Lawrence,  where  they  buried  it  in  a  free-state 
cemetery.  But  he  always  remembered  something  of  their 
westward  ride,  after  the  funeral  of  his  father.  The  boy 
carried  a  child's  memory  of  the  prairie  —  probably  his 
first  sight  of  the  prairie,  with  the  vacant  horizon  cir 
cling  around  and  around  him,  and  the  monotonous  rattle 
of  the  wagon  on  the  level  prairie  road,  for  hours  keeping 
the  same  rhythm  and  fitting  the  same  tune.  Then  there 
was  a  mottled  memory  of  the  woods  —  woods  with  sun 
shine  in  them,  and  of  a  prairie  flooded  with  sunshine  on 
which  he  played,  now  picking  flowers,  now  playing  house 
under  the  limestone  ledges,  now,  after  a  rain,  following 
little  rivers  down  rocky  draws,  and  finding  sunfish  and 


A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  5 

silversides  in  the  deeper  pools.  But  always  his  memory 
was  of  the  sunshine,  and  the  open  sky,  or  the  deep  wide 
woods  all  unexplored,  save  by  himself. 

The  great  road  that  widened  to  make  the  prairie  street, 
and  wormed  over  the  hill  into  the  sunset,  always  seemed 
dusty  to  the  boy,  and  although  in  after  years  he  followed 
that  road,  over  the  hills  and  far  away,  when  it  was  rutty 
and  full  of  clods,  as  a  child  he  recalled  it  only  as  a  great 
bed  of  dust,  wherein  he  and  other  boys  played,  now  bat 
tling  with  handfuls  of  dust,  and  now  running  races  on 
some  level  stretch  of  it,  and  now  standing  beside  the  road 
while  a  passing  movers'  wagon  delayed  their  play.  The 
movers'  wagon  was  never  absent  from  the  boy's  picture  of 
that  time  and  place.  Either  the  canvas-covered  wagon 
was  coming  from  the  ford  of  Sycamore  Creek,  or  disap 
pearing  over  the  hill  beyond  the  town,  or  was  passing  in 
front  of  the  boys  as  they  stopped  their  play.  Being  a  boy, 
he  could  not  know,  nor  would  he  care  if  he  did  know,  that 
he  was  seeing  one  of  God's  miracles  —  the  migration  of  a 
people,  blind  but  instinctive  as  that  of  birds  or  buffalo, 
from  old  pastures  into  new  ones.  All  over  the  plains  in 
those  days,  on  a  hundred  roads  like  that  which  ran  through 
Sycamore  Ridge,  men  and  women  were  moving  from  east 
to  west,  and,  as  often  has  happened  since  the  beginning  of 
time,  when  men  have  migrated,  a  great  ethical  principle 
was  stirring  in  them.  The  pioneers  do  not  go  to  the  wil 
derness  always  in  lust  of  land,  but  sometimes  they  go  to 
satisfy  their  souls.  The  spirit  of  God  moves  in  the  hearts 
of  men  as  it  moves  on  the  face  of  the  waters. 

Something  of  this  moving  spirit  was  in  John  Barclay's 
mother.  For  often  she  paused  at  her  work,  looking  up 
from  her  wash-tub  toward  the  highway,  when  a  prairie 
schooner  sailed  by,  and  lifting  her  face  skyward  for  an  in 
stant,  as  her  lips  moved  in  silence.  As  a  man  the  boy 
knew  she  was  thinking  of  her  long  journey,  of  the  tragedy 
that  came  of  it,  and  praying  for  those  who  passed  into  the 
West.  Then  she  would  bend  to  her  work  again ;  and  the 
washerwoman's  child  who  took  the  clothes  she  washed  in 
his  little  wagon  with  the  cottonwood  log  wheels,  across 


6  A   CERTAIN   RICH  MAN 

the  commons  into  the  town,  was  not  made  to  feel  an  in 
ferior  place  in  the  social  system  until  he  was  in  his  early 
teens.  For  all  the  Sycamore  Ridge  women  worked  hard 
in  those  days.  But  there  were  Sundays  when  the  boy 
and  his  mother  walked  over  the  wide  prairies  together,  and 
she  told  him  stories  of  Haverhill  —  of  the  wonderful  people 
who  lived  there,  of  the  great  college,  of  the  beautiful 
women  and  wise  men,  and  best  of  all  of  his  father,  who  was 
a  student  in  the  college,  and  they  dreamed  together — 
mother  and  child — about  how  he  would  board  at  Uncle 
Union's  and  work  in  the  store  for  Uncle  Abner  —  when 
the  boy  went  back  to  Haverhill  to  school  when  he  grew 
up. 

On  these  excursions  the  mother  sometimes  tried  to  in 
terest  him  in  Mr.  Beecher's  sermons  which  she  read  to 
him,  but  his  eyes  followed  the  bees  and  the  birds  and  the 
butterflies  and  the  shadows  trailing  across  the  hillside ; 
so  the  seed  fell  on  stony  ground.  One  fine  fall  day  they 
went  up  the  ridge  far  above  the  town  where  the  court 
house  stands  now,  and  there  under  a  lone  elm  tree  just 
above  a  limestone  ledge,  they  spread  their  lunch,  and  the 
mother  sat  on  the  hillside,  almost  hidden  by  the  rippling 
prairie  grass,  reading  the  first  number  of  the  Atlantic 
^Monthly,  while  the  boy  cleared  out  a  spring  that  bubbled 
from  beneath  a  rock  in  the  shade,  and  after  running  for  a 
few  feet  sank  under  a  great  stone  and  did  not  appear 
again.  As  the  mother  read,  the  afternoon  waned,  and 
when  she  looked  up,  she  was  astonished  to  see  John  stand 
ing  beside  the  rock,  waist  deep  in  a  hole,  trying  to  back 
down  into  it.  His  face  was  covered  with  dirt,  and  his 
clothes  were  wet  from  the  falling  water  of  the  spring  that 
was  flowing  into  the  hole  he  had  opened.  In  a  jiffy  she 
pulled  him  out,  and  looking  into  the  hole,  saw  by  the  failing 
sunlight  which  shone  directly  into  the  place  that  the  child 
had  uncovered  the  opening  of  a  cave.  But  they  did  not 
explore  it,  for  the  mother  was  afraid,  and  the  two  came 
down  the  hill,  the  child's  head  full  of  visions  of  a  pirate's 
treasure,  and  the  mother's  full  of  the  whims  of  the  Auto 
crat  of  the  Breakfast  Table. 


A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  7 

The  next  day  school  began  in  Sycamore  Ridge,  —  for 
the  school  and  the  church  came  with  the  newspaper,  Free 
dom's  Banner,  —  and  a  new  world  opened  to  the  boy,  and 
he  forgot  the  cave,  and  became  interested  in  Webster's 
blue-backed  speller.  And  thus  another  grown-up  person, 
"  Miss  Lucy,"  came  into  his  world.  For  with  children, 
men  and  women  generically  are  of  another  order  of  beings. 
But  Miss  Lucy,  being  John  Barclay's  teacher,  grew  into  his 
daily  life  on  an  equality  with  his  dog  and  the  Hendricks 
boys,  and  took  a  place  somewhat  lower  than  his  mother  in 
his  list  of  saints.  For  Miss  Lucy  came  from  Sangamon 
County,  Illinois,  and  her  father  had  fought  the  Indians,  and 
she  told  the  school  as  many  strange  and  wonderful  things 
about  Illinois  as  John  had  learned  from  his  mother  about 
Haverhill.  But  his  allegiance  to  the  teacher  was  only  lip 
service.  For  at  night  when  he  sat  digging  the  gravel  and 
dirt  from  the  holes  in  the  heels  of  his  copper-toed  boots, 
that  he  might  wad  them  with  paper  to  be  ready  for  his 
skates  on  the  morrow,  or  when  he  sat  by  the  wide  fire 
place  oiling  the  runners  with  the  steel  curly-cues  curving 
over  the  toes,  or  filing  a  groove  in  the  blades,  the  boy's 
greatest  joy  was  with  his  mother.  Sometimes  as  she  ironed 
she  told  him  stories  of  his  father,  or  when  the  child  was 
sick  and  nervous,  as  a  special  favour,  on  his  promise  to  take 
the  medicine  and  not  ask  for  a  drink,  she  would  bring  her 
guitar  from  under  the  bed  and  tune  it  up  and  play  with  a 
curious  little  mouse-like  touch.  And  on  rare  occasions 
she  would  sing  to  her  own  shy  maidenly  accompaniment, 
her  voice  rising  scarcely  higher  than  the  wind  in  the  syca 
more  at  the  spring  outside.  The  boy  remembered  only 
one  line  of  an  old  song  she  sometimes  tried  to  sing: 
"  Sleeping,  I  dream,  love,  dream,  love,  of  thee,"  but  what 
the  rest  of  it  was,  and  what  it  was  all  about,  he  never 
knew  ;  for  when  she  got  that  far,  she  always  stopped  and 
came  to  the  bed  and  lay  beside  him,  and  they  both  cried, 
though  as  a  child  he  did  not  know  why. 

So  the  winter  of  1857  wore  away  at  Sycamore  Ridge, 
and  with  the  coming  of  the  spring  of  '58,  when  the  town 
was  formally  incorporated,  even  into  the  boy  world  there 


8  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

came  the  murmurs  of  strife  and  alarms.  The  games  the 
boys  played  were  war  games.  They  had  battles  in  the 
woods,  between  the  free-state  and  the  pro-slavery  men, 
and  once  —  twice  —  three  times  there  marched  by  on  the 
road  real  soldiers,  and  it  was  no  unusual  thing  to  see  a 
dragoon  dismount  at  the  town  well  and  water  his  horse. 
The  big  boys  in  school  affected  spurs,  and  Miss  Lucy 
brought  to  school  with  her  one  morning  a  long  bundle, 
which,  when  it  was  unwrapped,  disclosed  the  sword  of  her 
father,  Captain  Barnes,  presented  to  him  by  his  admiring 
soldiers  at  the  close  of  the  "Black  Hawk  War."  John 
traded  for  a  tin  fife  and  learned  to  play  "  Jaybird  "  upon 
it,  though  he  preferred  the  jew's-harp,  and  had  a  more  varied 
repertory  with  it.  Was  it  an  era  of  music,  or  is  childhood 
the  period  of  music  ?  Perhaps  this  land  of  ours  was 
younger  than  it  is  now  and  sang  more  lustily,  if  not  with 
great  precision ;  for  to  the  man  who  harks  back  over  the 
years,  those  were  days  of  song.  All  the  world  seemed 
singing  —  men  in  their  stores  and  shops,  women  at  their 
work,  and  children  in  their  schools.  And  a  freckled,  bare 
footed  little  boy  with  sunburned  curly  hair,  in  home-made 
clothes,  and  with  brown  bare  legs  showing  through  the  rips 
in  his  trousers,  used  to  sit  alone  in  the  woods  breathing 
his  soul  into  a  mouth-organ —  a  priceless  treasure  for  which 
he  had  traded  two  raccoons,  an  owl,  and  a  prairie  dog.  But 
he  mastered  the  mouth-organ, — it  was  called  a  French 
harp  in  those  days,  —  and  before  he  had  put  on  his  first 
collar,  Watts  McHurdie  had  taught  the  boy  to  play  the 
accordion.  The  great  heavy  bellows  was  half  as  large  as 
he  was,  but  the  little  chap  would  sit  in  McHurdie's  har 
ness  shop  of  a  summer  afternoon  and  swing  the  instrument 
up  and  down  as  the  melody  swelled  or  died,  and  sway  his 
body  with  the  time  and  the  tune,  as  Watts  McHurdie,  who 
owned  the  accordion,  swayed  and  gyrated  when  he  played. 
Mrs.  Barclay,  hearing  her  son,  smiled  and  shook  her  head 
and  knew  him  for  a  Thatcher ;  "  No  Barclay,"  she  said, 
"ever  could  carry  a  tune."  So  the  mother  brought  out 
from  the  bottom  of  the  trunk  her  yellow-covered  book, 
"  Winner's  Instructor  on  the  Guitar,"  and  taught  the  child 


A   CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  9 

what  she  could  of  notes.     Thus  music  found  its  way  out 
of  the  boy's  soul. 

One  day  in  the  summer  of  1860,  as  he  and  his  fellows 
were  filing  down  the  crooked  dusty  path  that  led  from  the 
swimming  hole  through  the  dry  woods  to  the  main  road, 
they  came  upon  a  group  of  horsemen  scanning  the  dry  ford 
of  the  Sycamore.  That  was  the  first  time  that  John  Bar 
clay  met  the  famous  Captain  Lee.  He  was  a  great  hulk  of 
a  man  who,  John  thought,  looked  like  a  pirate.  The  boys 
led  the  men  and  their  horses  up  the  dry  limestone  bed  of 
the  stream  to  the  swimming  hole  —  a  deep  pool  in  the 
creek.  The  coming  of  the  soldiers  made  a  stir  in  the  town. 
For  they  were  not  "  regulars " ;  they  were  known  as  the 
Red  Legs,  but  called  themselves  u  The  Army  of  the  Bor 
der."  Under  Captain  J.  Lord  Lee  —  whose  life  after 
wards  touched  Barclay's  sometimes — "The  Army  of  the 
Border,"  being  about  forty  in  number,  came  to  Sycamore 
Ridge  that  night,  and  greatly  to  the  scandal  of  the  decent 
village,  there  appeared  with  the  men  two  women  in  short 
skirts  and  red  leggins,  who  were  introduced  at  Schnitzler's 
saloon  as  Happy  Hally  and  Lady  Lee.  "  The  Army  of 
the  Border,"  under  J.  Lord  and  Lady  Lee,  —  as  they  were 
known,  —  proceeded  to  get  bawling  drunk,  whereupon 
they  introduced  to  the  town  the  song  which  for  the 
moment  was  the  national  hymn  of  Kansas  :  — 

"  Am  I  a  soldier  of  the  boss, 
A  follower  of  Jim  Lane? 
Then  should  I  fear  to  steal  a  boss, 
Or  blush  to  ride  the  same." 

As  the  night  deepened  and  Henry  Schnitzler's  supply 
of  liquor  seemed  exhaustless,  the  Army  of  the  Border  went 
from  song  to  war  and  wandered  about  banging  doors  and 
demanding  to  know  if  any  white-livered  Missourian  in  the 
town  was  man  enough  to  come  out  and  fight.  At  half- 
past  one  the  Army  of  the  Border  had  either  gone  back  to 
camp,  or  propped  itself  up  against  the  sides  of  the  build 
ings  in  peaceful  sleep,  when  the  screech  of  the  brakes  on 
the  wheels  of  the  stage  was  heard  half  a  mile  away  as  it 


10  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

lumbered  down  the  steep  bank  of  the  Sycamore,  and  then 
the  town  woke  up.  As  the  stage  rolled  down  Main  Street, 
the  male  portion  of  Sycamore  Ridge  lined  up  before  the 
Thayer  House  to  see  who  would  get  out  and  to  learn  the 
news  from  the  gathering  storm  in  the  world  outside.  As 
the  crowd  stood  there,  and  while  the  driver  was  climbing 
from  his  box,  little  John  Barclay,  white-faced,  clad  in  his 
night  drawers,  came  flying  into  the  crowd  from  behind  a 
building. 

"  Mother  —  "  he  gasped,  "  mother  —  says  —  come  — 
mother  says  some  one  come  quick  —  there's  a  man  there 
—  trying  to  break  in  I  "  And  finding  that  he  had  made 
himself  understood,  the  boy  darted  back  across  the  com 
mon  toward  home.  The  little  white  figure  kept  ahead 
of  the  men,  and  when  they  arrived,  they  found  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  standing  in  the  door  of  her  house,  with  a  lantern  in 
one  hand  and  a  carbine  in  the  crook  of  her  arm.  In  the 
dark,  somewhere  over  toward  the  highway,  but  in  the 
direction  of  the  river,  the  sound  of  a  man  running  over 
the  ploughed  ground  might  be  heard  as  he  stumbled  and 
grunted  and  panted  in  fear.  She  shook  her  head  reas 
suringly  as  the  men  from  the  town  came  into  the  radius 
of  the  light  from  her  lantern,  and  as  they  stepped  on  the 
hard  clean-swept  earth  of  her  doorway,  she  said,  smiling : 

"  He  won't  come  back.  I'm  sorry  I  bothered  you. 
Only  —  I  was  frightened  a  little  at  first  —  when  I  sent 
Johnnie  out  of  the  back  door."  She  paused  a  moment, 
and  answered  some  one's  question  about  the  man,  and 
went  on,  "  He  was  just  drunk.  He  meant  no  harm.  It 
was  Lige  Bemis  —  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Watts  McHurdie,  "  you  know  —  the 
old  gang  that  used  to  be  here  before  the  town  started. 
He's  with  the  Red  Legs  now." 

"  Well,"  continued  Mrs.  Barclay,  "  he  said  he  wanted  to 
come  over  and  visit  the  sycamore  tree  by  the  spring." 

The  crowd  knew  Lige  and  laughed  and  turned  away. 
The  men  trudged  slowly  back  to  the  cluster  of  lights  that 
marked  the  town,  and  the  woman  closed  her  door,  and  she 
and  the  child  went  to  bed.  Instead  of  sleeping,  they 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  11 

talked  over  their  adventure.  He  sat  up  in  bed,  big-eyed 
with  excitement,  while  his  mother  told  him  that  the 
drunken  visitor  was  Lige  Bemis,  who  had  come  to  revisit 
a  cave,  a  horse  thief's  cave,  he  had  said,  back  of  the  big 
rock  that  seemed  to  have  slipped  down  from  the  ledge 
behind  the  house,  right  by  the  spring.  She  told  the  boy 
that  Bemis  had  said  that  the  cave  contained  a  room 
wherein  they  used  to  keep  their  stolen  horses,  and  that  he 
tried  to  move  the  great  slab  door  of  stone  and,  being  drunk, 
could  not  do  so. 

When  the  men  of  Sycamore  Ridge  who  left  the  stage 
without  waiting  to  see  what  human  seed  it  would  shuck 
out  arrived  at  Main  Street,  the  stage  was  in  the  barn,  the 
driver  was  eating  his  supper,  and  the  passenger  was  in  bed 
at  the  Thayer  House.  But  his  name  was  on  the  dog-eared 
hotel  register,  and  it  gave  the  town  something  to  talk 
about  as  Martin  Culpepper  was  distributing  the  mail. 
For  the  name  on  the  book  was  Philemon  R.  Ward,  and 
the  town  after  his  name,  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 
Every  man  and  woman  and  most  of  the  children  in  Syca 
more  Ridge  knew  who  Philemon  Ward  was.  He  had 
been  driven  out  of  Georgia  in  '58  for  editing  an  abolition 
newspaper ;  he  had  been  mobbed  in  Ohio  for  delivering 
abolition  lectures ;  he  had  been  led  out  of  Missouri  with 
a  rope  around  his  neck,  and  a  reward  was  on  his  head  in 
a  half-dozen  Southern  states  for  inciting  slaves  to  rebel 
lion.  His  picture  had  been  in  Harper's  Weekly  as  a  Gen 
eral  Passenger  Agent  of  the  Underground  Railway. 
Naturally  to  Sycamore  Ridge,  where  more  than  one  night 
the  town  had  sat  up  all  night  waiting  for  the  stage  to 
bring  the  New  York  Tribune,  Philemon  R.  Ward  was  a 
hero,  and  his  presence  in  the  town  was  an  event.  When 
the  little  Barclay  boy  heard  it  at  the  store  that  morning 
before  sunrise,  he  ran  down  the  path  toward  home  to  tell 
his  mother  and  had  to  go  back  to  do  the  errand  on  which 
he  was  sent.  By  sunrise  every  one  in  town  had  the 
news;  men  were  shaken  out  of  their  morning  naps  to 
near,  "  Philemon  Ward's  in  town  —  wake  up,  man  ;  did 
you  hear  what  I  say  ?  Philemon  Ward  came  to  town  last 


12  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

night  on  the  stage."  And  before  the  last  man  was  awake, 
the  town  was  startled  by  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  on 
the  gravel  road  over  the  hill  south  of  town,  and  Gabriel 
Carnine  and  Lycurgus  Mason  of  Minneola  came  dashing 
into  the  street  and  yelling,  "  The  Missourians  are  coming, 
the  Missourians  are  coming  !  " 

The  little  boy,  who  had  just  turned  into  Main  Street  for 
the  second  time,  remembered  all  his  life  how  the  news  that 
the  Minneola  men  brought,  thrilled  Sycamore  Ridge.  It 
seemed  to  the  boy  but  an  instant  till  the  town  was  in  the 
street,  and  then  he  and  a  group  of  boys  were  running  to 
the  swimming  hole  to  call  the  Army  of  the  Border.  The 
horse  weeds  scratched  his  face  as  he  plunged  through  the 
timber  cross-lots  with  his  message.  He  was  the  first  boy 
to  reach  the  camp.  What  they  did  or  what  he  did,  he  never 
remembered.  He  has  heard  men  say  many  times  that  he 
whispered  his  message,  grabbed  a  carbine,  and  came  tear 
ing  through  the  brush  back  to  the  town. 

All  that  is  important  to  know  of  the  battle  of  Sycamore 
Ridge  is  that  Philemon  Ward,  called  out  of  bed  with  the 
town  to  fight  that  summer  morning,  took  command  before 
he  had  dressed,  and  when  the  town  was  threatened  with  a 
charge  from  a  second  division  of  the  enemy,  Bemis  and 
Captain  Lee  of  the  Red  Legs,  Watts  McHurdie,  Madison 
Hendricks,  Oscar  Fernald,  and  Gabriel  Carnine,  under  the 
command  of  Philemon  Ward,  ran  to  the  top  of  the  high 
bank  of  the  Sycamore,  and  there  held  a  deep  cut  made  for 
the  stage  road,  — held  it  as  a  pass  against  a  half -hundred 
horsemen,  floundering  under  the  bank,  in  the  underbrush 
below,  who  dared  not  file  up  the  pass. 

The  little  boy  standing  at  the  window  of  his  mother's 
house  saw  this.  But  all  the  firing  in  the  town,  all  the  form 
ing  and  charging  and  skirmishing  that  was  done  that  hot 
August  day  in  '60,  either  he  did  not  see,  or  if  he  saw  it, 
the  memory  faded  under  the  great  terror  that  gripped  his 
soul  when  he  saw  his  mother  in  danger.  Ward  in  his 
undershirt  was  standing  by  a  tree  near  the  stage  road 
above  the  bank.  The  firing  in  the  creek  bed  had  stopped. 
His  back  was  toward  the  town,  and  then,  out  of  some 


A   CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  13 

place  dim  in  the  child's  mind  —  from  the  troop  southwest 
of  town  perhaps  —  came  a  charge  of  galloping  horsemen, 
riding  down  on  Ward.  The  others  with  him  had  found 
cover,  and  he,  seeing  the  enemy  before  him  and  behind  him, 
pistol  in  hand,  alone  charged  into  the  advancing  horsemen. 
It  was  all  confused  in  the  child's  mind,  though  the  his 
tories  say  that  the  Sycamore  Ridge  people  did  not  know 
Ward  was  in  danger,  and  that  when  he  fell  they  did  not 
understand  who  had  fallen.  But  the  boy — John  Barclay — 
saw  him  fall,  and  his  mother  knew  who  had  fallen,  and  the 
wife  of  the  Westport  martyr  groaned  in  anguish  as  she 
saw  Freedom's  champion  writhing  in  the  dust  of  the  road 
like  a  dying  snake,  after  the  troop  passed  over  him.  And 
even  when  he  was  a  man,  the  boy  could  remember  the  woe 
in  her  face,  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  her  child,  and  then 
huddling  down  to  avoid  the  bullets,  ran  across  the  field  to 
the  wounded  man,  with  dust  in  his  mouth,  twitching  in 
the  highway.  Bullets  were  spitting  in  the  dust  about 
her  as  the  boy  saw  his  mother  roll  the  bleeding  man  over, 
pick  him  up,  get  him  on  her  back  with  his  feet  trailing  on 
the  earth  beside  her,  and  then  rising  to  her  full  height, 
stagger  under  her  limp  burden  back  to  the  house.  When 
she  came  in  the  door,  her  face  and  shoulders  were  covered 
with  blood  and  her  skirt  ripped  with  a  bullet. 

That  is  all  of  the  battle  that  John  Barclay  ever  remem 
bered.  After  that  it  seemed  to  end,  though  the  histories 
say  that  it  lasted  all  the  long  day,  and  that  the  fire  of  the 
invaders  was  so  heavy  that  no  one  from  the  Ridge  dared 
venture  to  the  Barclay  home.  The  boy  saw  his  mother 
lay  the  unconscious  man  on  the  floor,  while  she  opened 
the  back  door,  and  without  saying  a  word,  stepped  to  the 
spring,  which  was  hidden  from  the  road.  She  put  her 
knee,  her  broad  chest,  and  her  strong  red  hand  to  the  rock 
and  shoved  until  her  back  bowed  and  the  cords  stood  out 
on  her  neck  ;  then  slowly  the  rock  moved  till  she  could  see 
inside  the  cave,  could  put  her  leg  in,  could  squirm  her 
body  in.  The  morning  light  flooded  in  after  her,  and  in 
the  instant  that  she  stood  there  she  saw  dimly  a  great 
room,  through  which  the  spring  trickled.  There  were  hay 


14  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

inside,  and  candles  and  saddles ;  in  another  minute  she  haa 
the  wounded  man  in  the  cave  and  was  washing  the  dirt 
from  him.  A  bullet  had  ploughed  its  way  along  his  scalp, 
his  body  was  pierced  through  the  shoulder,  and  his  leg  was 
broken  by  a  horse's  hoof.  She  did  what  she  could  while 
the  shooting  went  on  outside,  and  then  slipped  out,  tugged 
at  the  great  rock  again  until  it  fell  back  in  its  place,  and 
knowing  that  Philemon  Ward  was  safe  from  the  Missou- 
rians  if  they  should  win  the  day,  she  came  into  the  house. 
Then  as  the  mocking  clouds  of  the  summer  drouth  rolled 
up  at  night,  and  belched  forth  their  thunder  in  a  tempest 
of  wind,  the  besiegers  passed  as  a  dream  in  the  night. 
And  in  the  morning  they  were  not. 


CHAPTER  II 

AND  so  on  the  night  of  the  battle  of  Sycamore  Ridge. 
John  Barclay  closed  the  door  of  his  childhood  and  became 
a  boy.  He  did  not  remember  how  Ward's  wounds  were 
dressed,  nor  how  the  town  made  a  hero  of  the  man;  but  he 
did  remember  Watts  McHurdie  and  Martin  Culpepper  and 
the  Hendricks  boys  tramping  through  the  cave  that  night 
with  torches,  and  he  was  the  hero  of  that  occasion  because 
he  was  the  smallest  boy  there  and  they  put  him  up  through 
the  crack  in  the  head  of  the  cave,  and  he  saw  the  stars 
under  the  elm  tree  far  above  the  town,  where  he  and  his 
mother  had  spent  a  Sunday  afternoon  three  years  before. 
He  called  to  the  men  below  and  told  them  where  he  was, 
and  slipped  down  through  the  hole  again  with  an  elm 
sprout  in  his  hand  to  prove  that  he  had  been  under  the 
elm  tree  at  the  spring.  But  he  remembered  nothing  of 
the  night  —  how  the  men  picketed  the  town;  how  he  sat  up 
with  them  along  with  the  other  boys;  how  the  women, 
under  his  mother's  direction  and  Miss  Lucy's,  cared  for 
the  wounded  man,  who  lapsed  into  delirium  as  the  night 
wore  on,  and  gibbered  of  liberty  and  freedom  as  another 
man  would  go  over  his  accounts  in  his  dreams. 

His  mother  and  Miss  Lucy  took  turns  nursing  Ward 
night  after  night  during  the  hot  dry  summer.  As  the 
sick  man  grew  better,  many  men  came  to  the  house,  and 
great  plans  were  afloat.  Philemon  Ward,  sitting  up  in 
bed  waiting  for  his  leg  to  heal,  talked  much  of  the  cave 
as  a  refuge  for  fugitive  slaves.  There  was  some  kind  of  a 
military  organization;  all  the  men  in  town  were  enlisted, 
and  Ward  was  their  captain;  drums  were  rattling  and  men 
were  drilling;  the  dust  clouds  rose  as  they  marched  across 
the  drouth-blighted  fields.  One  night  they  marched  up 
to  the  Barclay  home,  and  Ward  with  a  crutch  under  his 
arm,  and  with  Mrs.  Barclay  and  Miss  Lucy  beside  him, 

15 


16  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

stood  in  the  door  and  made  a  speech  to  the  men.  And 
then  there  were  songs.  Watts  McHurdie  threw  back  his 
head  and  sang  "  Scots  wha  ha'  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  follow 
ing  it  with  some  words  of  his  own  denouncing  slavery  and 
calling  down  curses  upon  the  slaveholders ;  so  withal  it 
was  a  martial  occasion,  and  the  boy's  heart  swelled  with 
patriotic  pride.  But  for  a  vague  feeding  that  Miss  Lucy 
was  neglecting  him  for  her  patient,  John  would  have  be 
gun  making  a  hero  of  Philemon  R.  Ward.  As  it  was,  the 
boy  merely  tolerated  the  man  and  silently  suspected  him 
of  intentions  and  designs. 

But  when  school  opened,  Philemon  Ward  left  Sycamore 
Ridge  and  John  Barclay  made  an  important  discovery.  It 
was  that  Ellen  Culpepper  had  eyes.  In  Sycamore  Ridge 
with  its  three  hundred  souls,  only  fifteen  of  them  were 
children,  and  five  of  them  were  ten  years  old,  and  John 
had  played  with  those  five  nearly  all  his  life.  But  at  ten 
sometimes  the  scales  drop  from  one's  eyes,  and  a  ribbon 
or  a  bead  or  a  pair  of  new  red  striped  yarn  stockings  or 
any  other  of  the  embellishments  which  nature  teaches  little 
girls  to  wear  casts  a  sheen  over  all  the  world  for  a  boy. 
The  magic  bundle  that  charmed  John  Barclay  was  a 
scarlet  dress,  umade  over,"  that  came  in4an  "aid  box" 
from  the  Culpeppers  in  Virginia.  And*  when  the  otfyer 
children  in  Miss  Lucy's  school  made  fun  of  John  and  his 
amour,  the  boy  fought  his  way  through  it  all  —  where 
fighting  was  the  better  part  of  valour  —  and  made  horse 
hair  chains  for  Ellen  and  cut  lockets  for  her  out  of  coffee 
beans,  and  with  a  red-hot  poker  made  a  ring  for  her  from 
a  rubber  button  as  a  return  for  the  smile  he  got  at  the  sly 
twist  he  gave  her  hair  as  he  passed  her  desk  on  his  way  to 
the  spelling  class.  As  for  Miss  Lucy,  who  saw  herself 
displaced,  she  wrote  to  Philemon  Ward,  and  told  him  of 
her  jilting,  and  railed  at  the  fickleness  and  frailty  of  the 
sex. 

And  by  that  token  an  envelope  in  Ward's  handwriting 
came  to  Miss  Lucy  every  week,  and  Postmaster  Martin 
Cnlpepper  and  Mrs.  Martin  Culpepper  and  all  Sycamore 
Ridge  knew  it.  And  loyal  Southerner  though  he  was, 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  17 

Martin  Culpepper's  interest  in  the  affair  between  Ward  and 
Miss  Lucy  was  greater  than  his  indignation  over  the  fact 
that  Ward  had  carried  his  campaign  even  into  Virginia ; 
nothing  would  have  tempted  him  to  disclose  to  his  political 
friends  at  home  the  postmarks  of  Ward's  letters.  That 
was  the  year  of  the  great  drouth  of  '60,  remembered  all 
over  the  plains.  And  as  the  winter  deepened  and  the 
people  of  Sycamore  Ridge  were  without  crops,  and  with 
out  money  to  buy  food,  they  bundled  up  Martin  Culpepper 
and  sent  him  back  to  Ohio  seeking  aid.  He  was  a  hand 
some  figure  the  day  he  took  the  stage  in  his  high  hat  and 
his  ruffled  shirt  and  broad  coat  tails,  a  straight  lean  figure 
of  a  man  in  his  early  thirties,  with  fine  black  eyes  and  a 
shocky  head  of  hair,  and  when  he  pictured  the  sufferings 
of  the  Kansas  pioneers  to  the  people  of  the  East,  the  state 
was  flooded  with  beans  and  flour,  and  sheeted  in  white 
muslin.  For  Martin  Culpepper  was  an  orator,  and  though 
he  is  in  his  grave  now,  the  picture  he  painted  of  bleeding 
Kansas  nearly  fifty  years  ago  still  hangs  in  many  an  old 
man's  memory.  And  after  all,  it  was  only  a  picture.  For 
they  were  all  young  out  here  then,  and  through  all  the 
drouth  and  the  hardship  that  followed  —  and  the  hardship 
was  real  —  there  was  always  the  gayety  of  youth.  The 
dances  on  Deer  Creek  and  at  Minneola  did  not  stop  for  the 
drouth,  and  many's  the  night  that  Mrs.  Mason,  the  tall 
raw-boned  wife  of  Lycurgus,  wrapped  little  Jane  in  a 
quilt  and  came  over  to  the  Ridge  from  Minneola  to  take 
part  in  some  social  affair.  And  while  Martin  Culpepper 
was  telling  of  the  anguish  of  the  famine,  Watts  Mcliurdie 
and  his  accordion  and  Ezra  Lane's  fiddle  were  agitating 
the  heels  of  the  populace.  And  even  those  pioneers  who 
were  moved  to  come  into  the  wilderness  by  a  great  pur 
pose —  and  they  were  moved  so — to  come  into  the  new 
territory  and  make  it  free,  nevertheless  capered  and  romped 
through  the  drouth  of  '60  in  the  cast-off  garments  of  their 
kinsmen  and  were  happy  ;  for  there  were  buffalo  meat  and 
beans  for  the  needy,  the  aid  room  had  flour,  and  God  gave 
them  youth. 

Not  drouth,  nor  famine,  nor  suffering,  nor   zeal   of   a 


18  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

great  purpose  can  burn  out  the  sparkle  of  youth  in  the 
heart.  Only  time  can  do  that,  and  so  John  Barclay  re 
membered  the  famous  drouth  of  '60,  not  by  his  mother's 
tears,  which  came  as  she  bent  over  his  little  clothes,  before 
the  aid  box  came  from  Haverhill,  not  by  the  long  days  of 
waiting  for  the  rain  that  never  came,  not  even  by  the  sun 
that  lapped  up  the  swimming  hole  before  fall,  and  left  no 
river  to  freeze  for  their  winter's  skating,  not  even  by  his 
mother's  anguish  when  she  had  to  go  to  the  aid  store  for 
flour  and  beans,  though  that  must  have  been  a  sorry  day 
for  a  Thatcher  ;  but  he  remembers  the  great  drouth  by 
Ellen  Culpepper's  party,  where  they  had  a  frosted  cake  and 
played  kissing  games,  and — well,  fifty  years  is  a  long  time 
for  two  brown  eyes  to  shine  in  the  heart  of  a  boy  and  a 
man.  It  is  strange  that  they  should  glow  there,  and  all 
memory  of  the  runaway  slaves  who  were  sheltered  in  the 
cave  by  the  sycamore  tree  should  fade,  and  be  only  as  a 
tale  that  is  told.  Yet,  so  memory  served  the  boy,  and  he 
knew  only  at  second  hand  how  his  mother  gave  her 
widow's  mite  to  the  cause  for  which  she  had  crossed  the 
prairies  as  of  old  her  "  fathers  crossed  the  sea." 

Before  the  rain  came  in  the  spring  of  '61  Martin  Cul- 
pepper  came  back  from  the  East  an  orator  of  established 
reputation.  The  town  was  proud  of  him,  and  he  addressed 
the  multitude  on  various  occasions  and  wept  many  tears  over 
the  sad  state  of  the  country.  For  in  the  nation,  as  well 
as  in  Sycamore  Ridge,  great  things  were  stirring.  Watts 
McHurdie  filled  Freedom's  Banner  with  incendiary  verse, 
always  giving  the  name  of  the  tune  at  the  beginning  of 
each  contribution,  by  which  it  might  be  sung,  and  the  way 
he  clanked  Slavery's  chains  and  made  love  to  Freedom  was 
highly  disconcerting  ;  but  the  town  liked  it. 

In  April  Philemon  R.  Ward  came  back  to  Sycamore 
Ridge,  and  there  was  a  great  gathering  to  hear  his  speech. 
Ward's  soul  was  aflame  with  anger.  There  were  no  Greek 
gods  and  Roman  deities  in  what  Ward  said,  as  there  were 
in  Martin  Culpepper's  addresses.  Ward  used  no  figures 
of  speech  and  exercised  no  rhetorical  charms  ;  but  he  talked 
with  passion  in  his  voice  and  the  frenzy  of  a  cause  in  his 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  19 

eyes.  Martin  Culpepper  was  in  the  crowd,  and  as  Ward 
lashed  the  South,  every  heart  turned  in  interrogation  to 
Culpepper.  They  knew  what  his  education  had  been. 
They  understood  his  sentiments  ;  and  yet  because  he  was 
one  of  them,  because  he  had  endured  with  them  and  suf 
fered  with  them  and  ministered  to  them,  the  town  set  him 
apart  from  its  hatred.  And  Martin  Culpepper  was  sensi 
tive  enough  to  feel  this.  It  came  over  him  with  a  wave  of 
joy,  and  as  Ward  talked,  Culpepper  expanded.  Ward  closed 
in  a  low  tone,  and  his  face  was  white  with  pent-up  zeal  as 
he  asked  some  one  to  pray.  There  was  a  silence,  and  then  a 
woman's  voice,  trembling  and  passionate,  arose,  and  Syca 
more  Ridge  knew  that  Mrs.  Barclay,  the  widow  of  the 
Westport  martyr,  was  giving  sound  to  a  voice  that  had 
long  been  still.  It  was  a  simple  halting  prayer,  and  not 
all  those  in  the  room  heard  it  clearly.  The  words  were 
not  always  fitly  chosen;  but  as  the  prayer  neared  its  close,  — 
and  it  was  a  short  prayer  at  the  most,  —  there  came 
strength  and  courage  into  the  voice  as  it  asked  for  grace  for 
"  the  brother  among  us  who  has  shared  our  sufferings  and 
lightened  our  burdens,  and  who  has  cleaved  to  us  as  a  brother, 
but  whose  heart  is  drawn  away  from  us  by  ties  of  blood 
and  kinship  " ;  and  then  the  voice  sank  lower  and  lower  as 
though  in  shame  at  its  boldness,  and  hushed  in  a  tremu 
lous  Amen. 

No  one  spoke  for  a  moment,  and  as  Sycamore  Ridge 
looked  up  from  the  floor,  its  eyes  turned  instinctively  tow 
ard  Martin  Culpepper.  He  felt  the  question  that  was  in 
the  hearts  about  him,  and  slowly,  to  the  wonder  of  all,  he 
rose.  He  had  a  beautiful  deep  purring  voice,  and  when  he 
opened  his  eyes,  they  seemed  to  look  into  every  pair  of  eyes 
in  the  throng.  There  were  tears  on  his  face  and  in  his 
voice  as  he  spoke.  "  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  or  to 
return  from  following  after  thee  :  for  whither  thou  goest,  I 
will  go;  and  where  thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge:  thy  people 
shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God  :  where  thou 
diest,  I  will  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried:  the  Lord 
do  so  to  me,  and  more  also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee 
and  me."  And  then  he  sank  to  his  chair  and  hid  his 


20  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

face,  and  for  a  moment  a  hundred  wet-eyed  men   were 

still. 

Though  John  Barclay  was  at  the  meeting,  he  remembered 
only  his  mother's  prayer,  but  in  his  heart  there  was  always  a 
picture  of  a  little  boy  trying  to  walk  home  with  a  little  girl, 
and  when  he  came  up  with  her  she  darted  ahead  or  dropped 
back.  At  the  Culpepper  gate  she  stood  waiting  fully  a 
minute  for  him  to  catch  her,  and  when  he  came  up  to  her, 
she  laughed,  "  Huh,  Mr.  Smarty,  you  didn't,  did  you  ?  "  and 
ran  up  the  walk,  scooted  into  the  house,  and  slammed  the 
door.  But  he  understood  and  went  leaping  down  the  hill 
toward  home  with  happiness  tingling  in  his  very  finger-tips. 
He  seemed  to  be  flying  rather  than  walking,  and  his  toes 
touched  the  dirt  path  so  lightly  that  he  rounded  the  cor 
ner  and  ran  plump  into  Miss  Lucy  and  Philemon  Ward 
standing  at  the  gate.  And  what  he  saw  surprised  him  so 
that  he  let  out  a  great  "  haw-haw-haw  "  and  ran,  trying  to 
escape  his  shame  and  fear  at  his  behaviour.  But  the  next 
morning  Miss  Lucy  smiled  so  sweetly  at  him  as  he  came 
into  the  schoolroom,  that  he  knew  he  was  forgiven,  and 
that  thrill  was  lost  by  the  thump  of  joy  that  startled  his 
heart  when  he  saw  a  bunch  of  dog-tooth  violets  in  his  ink 
bottle,  and  in  his  geography  found  a  candy  heart  with  a 
motto  on  it  so  fervent  that  he  did  not  eat  it  for  three  long 
abstemious  days  of  sheer  devotion,  in  which  there  were 
eyes  and  eyes  and  eyes  from  the  little  girl  in  the  scarlet 
gown. 

It  is  strange  that  the  boy  did  not  remember  how  Syca 
more  Ridge  took  the  call  to  arms  for  the  war  between  the 
states.  All  he  remembered  of  the  great  event  in  our  his 
tory  as  it  touched  the  town  was  that  one  day  he  heard  there 
was  going  to  be  a  war.  And  then  everything  seemed  to 
change.  A  dread  came  over  the  people.  It  fell  upon  the 
school,  where  every  child  had  a  father  who  was  going  away. 

And  it  was  because  Madison  Hendricks,  the  first  man 
to  leave  for  the  war,  was  father  of  Bob  and  Elmer  Hen 
dricks  that  John's  first  associations  of  the  great  Civil  War 
go  back  to  the  big  black-bearded  man.  For  Madison 
Hendricks,  who  was  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  and  a  vet- 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  21 

eran  of  the  Mexican  War,  was  called  to  Washington  in 
May,  and  his  boys  acquired  a  prestige  that  was  not  ac 
corded  to  them  by  the  mere  fact  that  their  father  was 
president  of  the  town  company,  and  was  accounted  the  first 
citizen  of  the  town.  Madison  Hendricks,  who  owned  the 
land  on  which  the  town  was  built,  Madison  Hendricks, 
scholar  and  gentleman,  veteran  of  the  Mexican  War,  first 
mayor  of  Sycamore  Ridge  upon  its  incorporation, — his 
sons  had  no  standing.  But  Madison  Hendricks,  formally 
summoned  to  go  to  Washington  to  put  down  the  rebellion, 
and  leaving  on  the  stage  with  appropriate  ceremonies, — 
there  was  a  man  who  could  bequeath  to  his  posterity  in 
the  boy  world  something  of  his  consequence. 

So  in  the  pall  that  came  upon  the  school  in  Sycamore 
Ridge  that  spring  of  '61,  Bob  and  Elmer  Hendricks  were 
heroes,  and  their  sister — who  was  their  only  guardian  in 
their'  father's  absence — had  to  put  them  in  her  dresses 
and  send  them  to  bed,  and  punish  them  in  all  the  shameful 
ways  that  she  knew  to  take  what  she  called  "  the  tuck  out 
of  them."  And  the  boy  of  all  the  boys  who  gave  the  Hen 
dricks  boys  most  homage  was  little  Johnnie  Barclay. 
There  was  no  dread  in  his  hero-worship.  He  had  no 
father  to  go  to  the  war.  But  the  other  children  and  all 
the  women  were  under  a  great  cloud  of  foreboding,  and  for 
them  the  time  was  one  of  tension  and  hoping  against  hope 
that  the  war  would  soon  pass. 

How  the  years  gild  our  retrospect.  It  was  in  1903  that 
Martin  Culpepper,  a  man  in  his  seventies,  collected  and 
published  "The  Complete  Poetical  and  Philosophical 
Works  cf  Watts  McHurdie,  together  with  Notes  and  a 
Biographical  Appreciation  by  Martin  F.  Culpepper." 
One  of  the  earlier  chapters,  which  tells  of  the  enlistment 
of  the  volunteer  soldiers  for  the  Civil  War  in  '61,  de 
votes  some  space  to  the  recruiting  and  enlistment  in  Syca 
more  Ridge.  The  chapter  bears  the  heading  "  The  Large 
White  Plumes,"  and  in  his  "introductory  remarks"  the 
biographer  says,  "  To  him  who  looks  back  to  those  golden 
days  of  heroic  deeds  only  the  lines  of  Keats  will  paint  the 
picture  in  his  soul :  — 


22  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

" '  Lo,  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry, 

For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eyes.'  * 

And  so  the  "  large  white  plumes "  blinded  his  eyes  to 
the  fear  and  the  dread  that  were  in  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
and  he  tells  his  readers  nothing  of  the  sadness  that  men 
felt  who  put  in  crops  knowing  that  their  wives  must  culti 
vate  and  harvest  them.  He  sees  only  the  glory  of  it;  for 
we  read  :  "  Hail  to  the  spirit  of  mighty  Mars.  When  he 
strode  through  our  peaceful  village,  he  awoke  many  a  war 
song  in  our  breasts.  As  for  our  hero,  Mars,  the  war  god 
forged  iron  reeds  for  his  lute,  and  he  breathed  into  it  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  and  all  the  valour,  all  the  chivalry  of  a 
golden  day  came  pouring  out  of  his  impassioned  reeds." 
Such  is  the  magic  of  those  large  white  plumes  on  Martin 
Culpepper's  memory.  Although  John  Barclay  in  that 
latter  day  bought  a  thousand  copies  of  the  Biography  and 
sent  them  to  public  libraries  all  over  the  world,  he  smiled 
as  he  read  that  paragraph  referring  to  Watts  McHurdie's 
accordion  as  the  "impassioned  reeds."  When  he  read  it, 
John  Barclay,  grown  to  a  man  of  fifty-three,  sitting  at  a 
great  mahogany  table,  with  a  tablet  of  white  paper  on  a 
green  blotting  pad  before  him,  and  a  gorgeous  rose  rising 
from  a  tall  graceful  green  vase  on  the  shi  ning  table,  looked 
out  over  a  brown  wilderness  of  roofs  and  chimneys  across 
a  broad  river  into  the  hills  that  were  green  afar  off,  and 
there,  rising  out  of  yesterday,  he  saw,  not  the  bent  little 
old  man  in  the  harness  shop  with  steel-rimmed  spectacles 
and  greasy  cap,  whom  you  may  see  to-day;  but  instead, 
the  boy  in  John  Barclay's  soul  looked  through  his  eyes, 
and  he  saw  another  Watts  McHurdie,  —  a  dapper  little 
fellow  under  a  wide  slouch  hat,  with  a  rolling  Byronic 
collar,  and  fancy  yellow  waistcoat  of  the  period,  in  ex 
ceedingly  tight  trousers.  And  then,  flash  I  the  picture 
changed,  and  Barclay  saw  Watts  McHurdie  under  his 
mushroom  hat;  Martin  Culpepper  in  his  long-tailed  coat; 
Philemon  Ward,  tall,  fair-skinned,  blue-eyed,  slim,  and 
sturdy;  skinny,  nervous  Lycurgus  Mason  and  husky  Ga 
briel  Carnine  from  Minneola ;  Jake  Dolan  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
without  adornment  of  any  kind,  except  the  gold  horsesho^ 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  23 

pinned  on  his  shirt  bosom;  Daniel  Frye,  the  pride  of  an 
admiring  family,  in  his  best  home-made  clothes;  Henry 
Schnitzler,  Oscar  Fernald,  and  nearly  a  hundred  other 
men,  to  the  boy's  eyes  so  familiar  then,  now  forgotten,  and 
all  their  faces  blurred  in  the  crowd  that  stood  about  the 
recruiting  officer  by  the  town  pump  in  Sycamore  Ridge  that 
summer  day  of  '61.  A  score  or  so  of  men  had  passed 
muster.  The  line  on  the  post  at  the  wooden  awning  in 
front  of  Schnitzler's  saloon  was  marked  at  five  feet  six. 
All  had  stood  by  it  with  their  heads  above  the  line.  It 
was  Watts  McHurdie's  turn.  He  wore  high-heeled  boots 
for  the  occasion,  but  strut  as  he  would,  his  reached  hair 
would  not  touch  the  stick  that  came  over  the  line.  "  Stretch 
your  neck  —  JQ  bantam,"  laughed  Jake  Dolan.  "  Walk 
turkey  fashion,  Watts,"  cried  Henry  Schnitzler,  rushing 
up  behind  Watts  and  grabbing  his  waistband.  The  crowd 
roared.  Watts  looked  imploringly  at  the  recruiting  officer 
and  blubbered  in  wrath:  "Yes,  damn  you  —  yes  ;  that's 
right.  Of  course ;  you  won't  let  me  die  for  my  bleedin' 
country  because  I  ain't  nine  feet  tall."  And  the  little 
man  turned  away  trying  to  choke  his  tears  and  raging  at 
his  failure.  And  because  the  recruiting  officer  was  con 
siderable  of  a  man,  Watts  McHurdie's  name  was  written 
in  the  muster  roll,  and  he  went  out. 

Many  days  must  have  passed  between  the  time  when 
the  men  were  mustered  in  and  the  day  they  went  away  to 
the  war.  But  to  the  man  who  saw  those  times  through  the 
memory  of  the  boy  in  blue  jeans  forever  playing  bugle- 
calls  upon  his  fife,  it  was  all  one  day.  For  that  crowd 
dissolved,  and  another  picture  appeared  upon  the  sensitized 
plate  of  his  memory.  There  is  a  crowd  in  the  post-office 
—  mostly  men  who  are  going  away  to  war.  The  stage 
has  come  in,  and  a  stranger,  better  dressed  than  the  men 
of  Sycamore  Ridge,  is  behind  the  letter-boxes  of  the  post- 
office.  The  boy  is  watching  his  box ;  for  it  is  the  day 
when  the  Springfield  Republican  is  due.  Gradually  the 
hum  in  front  of  the  boxes  quiets,  and  two  loud  voices  have 
risen  behind  the  screen.  Then  out  walks  great  Martin 
Culpepper,  white  of  face,  with  pent-up  fury.  His  left 


24  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

hand  is  clutched  like  a  talon  in  the  shoulder  of  the  stranger, 
whom  Martin  is  holding  before  him.  "  Gentlemen,  your 
attention,"  demands  Culpepper.  The  stranger  swallows 
his  Adam's  apple  as  if  to  speak  ;  Martin  turns  to  him  with, 
"  Don't  you  say  that  word  again,  sir,  or  I'll  wring  your 
neck."  Then  he  proceeds  :  — 

"  Gentlemen,  this  busybody  has  come  all  the  way  from 
Washington  here  to  tell  me  I'm  a  thief.  I  wrote  to  his 
damn  Yankee  government  that  I  was  needing  the  money 
last  winter  to  go  East  on  the  aid  committee  and  would 
replace  it,  and  now  that  I'm  going  out  to-morrow  to  die  for 
his  damn  Yankee  government,  he  has  the  impertinence  to 
come  in  here  and  say  I  stole  that  money.  Now  what  I 
want  to  ask  you,  gentlemen,  is  this  :  Do  I  go  out  to-morrow 
to  die  on  the  field  of  glory  for  my  country,  or  does  this  here 
little  contemptible  whippersnapper  take  me  off  to  rot  in 
some  Yankee  jail  ?  I  leave  it  to  you,  gentlemen.  Settle 
it  for  yourselves."  And  with  that  Culpepper  throws  the 
man  into  the  crowd  and  walks  behind  the  screen  in  solemn 
state. 

The  boy  never  knew  how  it  was  settled.  But  Martin 
Culpepper  went  to  "  the  field  of  glory, "  and  all  the  boy 
knew  of  the  incident  is  here  recorded.  However,  in  the 
Biography  of  Watts  McHurdie  above-mentioned  and  afore 
said  occur  these  words,  in  the  same  chapter  —  the  one 
entitled  "The  Large  White  Plumes":  "  Let  memory  with 
gentle  hand  cover  with  her  black  curtain  of  soft  oblivion  all 
that  was  painful  on  that  glorious  day.  Let  us  not  recall 
the  bickerings  and  the  strifes,  let  the  grass  watered  by 
Lethe's  sweet  spring  creep  over  the  scars  in  the  bright  pros 
pect  which  lies  under  our  loving  gaze.  Let  us  hold  in  our 
heart  the  tears  in  beauty's  eyes  ;  the  smile  that  curls  her 
crimson  lips,  and  the  hope  that  burns  upon  her  brow.  Let 
us  fondle  the  sacred  memory  of  every  warm  hand  clasp  of 
comrade  and  take  to  the  silent  grave  the  ever  green  garland 
of  love  that  adorned  our  hearts  that  day.  For  the  sordid 
thorns  that  pierced  our  bleeding  hearts  —  what  are  they 
but  ashes  to-day,  blown  on  the  winds  of  yesterday  ?  " 

What  indeed,  Martin  Culpepper  —  what  indeed,  smiled 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  25 

John  Barclay  as  he  reached  for  the  rose  on  his  broad  ma 
hogany  desk  across  forty  long  years,  and  looking  through 
a  wide  window,  saw  on  the  blank  wall  of  a  great  hulk  of  a 
building  half  a  mile  away,  the  fine  strong  figure  of  a  man 
with  black  shaggy  hair  on  his  young  leonine  head  rise  and 
wave  his  handkerchief  to  a  woman  with  tears  running  down 
her  face  and  anguish  in  her  eyes,  standing  in  a  swarm  of 
children.  What  indeed  are  sordid  thorns  when  the  "  large 
white  plumes  are  dancing  "  —  what  indeed  ? 

That  was  a  busy  night  in  Sycamore  Ridge  —  the  night 
before  the  men  left  for  war  in  the  summer  of  '61.  And 
the  busiest  man  in  all  the  town  was  Philemon  R.  Ward. 
Every  man  in  the  town  was  going,  and  most  of  the  men 
were  going  who  lived  in  the  county  —  an  area  as  large  as 
a  New  England  state,  and  yet  when  they  were  all  gathered 
in  Main  Street,  there  were  less  than  fivescore  of  them. 
They  had  agreed  to  elect  Ward  captain,  Martin  Culpepper 
first  lieutenant,  Jake  Dolan  second  lieutenant.  It  was  one 
of  the  diversions  of  the  occasion  to  call  out  "  Hello,  Cap," 
when  Ward  hustled  by  a  loitering  crowd.  But  his  pride 
was  in  his  work,  and  before  sundown  he  had  it  done.  The 
Yankee  in  him  gave  him  industry  and  method  and  fore 
sight.  At  sunset  the  last  of  the  twenty  teams  and  wagons 
he  had  ordered  came  rattling  down  the  hill  west  of  town, 
driven  by  Gabriel  Carnine  of  Minneola,  with  Mrs. 
Lycurgus  Mason  sitting  like  a  war  goddess  on  the  back 
seat  holding  Lycurgus,  a  spoil  of  battle,  while  he  held 
their  daughter  on  his  lap,  withal  a  martial  family  party. 
Mrs.  Barclay  and  Miss  Lucy  went  to  the  aid  store-room 
and  worked  the  long  night  through,  getting  breakfast  for 
the  men.  Mary  Murphy  and  Nellie  Logan  came  from  the 
Thayer  House  to  the  aid  room  when  the  hotel  dishes  were 
washed,  and  helped  with  the  work.  And  while  they  were 
there  the  Culpeppers  walked  in,  returning  from  a  neigh 
bourly  visit  to  Miss  Hendricks  ;  John  Barclay  in  an  apron, 
stirring  a  boiling  pot  of  dried  apples,  turned  his  back  on 
the  eyes  that  charmed  him,  but  when  the  women  sent  him 
for  a  bucket  of  water,  he  shook  the  handle  at  Ellen  Cul 
pepper  and  beckoned  her  with  a  finger,  and  they  slipped 


26  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

out  into  the  moonlight  together.  She  had  hold  of  the 
handle  of  the  bucket  with  him,  and  they  pulled  and  hauled 
and  laughed  as  boy  and  girl  will  laugh  so  long  as  the 
world  turns  round.  The  street  was  deserted,  and  only  the 
bar  of  light  that  fell  across  the  sidewalk  from  Schnitzler's 
saloon  indicated  the  presence  of  human  beings  in  the  little 
low  buildings  that  pent  in  the  highway.  The  boy  and 
the  girl  stood  at  the  pump,  and  the  boy  stuck  a  foot  in  the 
horse  trough.  He  made  a  wet  silhouette  of  it  on  the  stone 
beneath  him,  and  reached  for  the  handle  of  the  pump. 
Then  he  said,  "  I  got  somepin  I  won't  tell." 

"  Three  little  niggers  in  a  peanut  shell,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  All  right,  Miss  Cuteness.  All  right  for  you ;  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  somepin,  but  I  won't  now."  He  gave 
the  pump-handle  a  pull.  It  was  limp  and  did  not  respond 
with  water.  "Ellen — "  the  boy  repeated  as  he  worked 
the  handle,  "I  got  somepin  to  tell  you.  Honest  I  have." 

"  I  don't  care,  Mr.  Smarty,"  the  girl  replied  ;  she  made 
a  motion  as  if  to  walk  away,  but  did  not.  The  boy 
noticed  it  and  said,  "  Yes,  sir  —  it's  somepin  you'd  like  to 
know."  The  girl  did  not  turn  round.  The  boy,  who  had 
been  working  with  the  wheezy  pump,  was  holding  the 
handle  up,  and  water  was  gurgling  down  the  well.  And 
before  she  could  answer  he  said,  "Say,  Ellen  —  don't 
be  mad;  honest  I  got  somepin." 

"  Who's  it  about  ?  "  she  asked  over  her  shoulder. 

"Me." 

"  That's  not  much  —  who  else  ?  " 

"Elmer  Hendricks!  " 

"  Who  else  ? "  The  girl  was  halfway  turned  around 
when  she  spoke. 

«  Bob —  Bob  Hendricks,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Aw  —  Bob  Hendricks — "  returned  the  girl,  in  con 
tempt.  Then  she  faced  the  boy  and  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Come  here  V  I'll  tell  you." 

"I'll  come  this  far."     The  girl  took  two  steps. 

"  I  got  to  whisper  it,  and  you  can't  hear." 

"  Well,  'tain't  much."  The  girl  dangled  one  bare  foot 
hesitatingly. 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  27 

"  I'll  come  halfway,"  she  added. 

The  boy  made  a  mark  in  the  dust  of  the  road  a  few 
feet  from  him  with  his  toe,  and  said,  "Come  to  there." 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  and  spoke.  "  Tell  me  part  — 
V  I'll  see  if  it's  good." 

"  Me  and  Elmer  an'  Bob  are  goin'  to  run  away  !  "  The 
girl  stepped  to  the  toe  mark  and  cried,  "  What  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir  —  in  the  mornin'."  He  caught  hold  of  the 
girl's  arm  awkwardly  and  swung  her  around  to  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  pump-handle,  and  put  her  hands  on  it 
and  began  to  pump.  She  pumped  with  him  as  he  puffed 
between  the  strokes,  "  Um'  huh  —  we're  going  to  hide 
in  the  provision  wagons,  under  some  saddles  they  is  there 
and  go  —  to  —  war  !  "  The  water  was  pouring  into  the 
bucket  by  the  time  he  had  got  this  out.  Their  hands 
touched  on  the  pump-handle.  It  was  the  boy  who  drew 
his  hand  away.  The  girl  gasped: — 

"  Why,  John  Barclay,  —  it  ain't  no  such  thing  —  does 
your  ma  know  it  ?  " 

He  told  her  that  no  one  knew  it  but  her,  and  they 
pumped  in  silence  until  the  bucket  was  full,  and  walking 
back  carrying  the  bucket  between  them,  he  told  her  an 
other  secret:  that  Watts  McHurdie  had  asked  John  to 
get  his  guitar  after  midnight,  and  play  an  accompaniment 
to  the  accordion,  and  that  Watts  and  Ward  and  Jake 
Dolan  and  Gabriel  Carnine  were  going  out  serenading. 
Further  he  told  her  that  Watts  was  going  to  serenade 
Nellie  Logan  at  the  Thayer  House,  and  that  Gabriel 
Carnine  was  going  to  serenade  Mary  Murphy,  and  that 
Philemon  Ward  was  going  to  serenade  Miss  Lucy,  and 
that  he,  John  Barclay,  had  suggested  that  it  would  be  fine 
to  serenade  Mrs.  Culpepper,  because  she  was  such  a  nice 
woman,  and  they  agreed  that  if  he  would  bring  his  guitar, 
they  would ! 

When  the  boy  and  girl  returned  to  the  store,  Ward  and 
Miss  Lucy  went  to  the  Barclay  home  for  the  guitar. 
When  they  came  back,  Mrs.  Barclay  noted  a  pink  welt 
on  one  of  Ward's  fingers  where  his  cameo  ring  had  been, 
and  she  observed  that  from  time  to  time  Miss  Lucy  kept 


28  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

feeling  of  her  hair  as  if  to  smooth  it.  It  was  long  after 
midnight  before  the  girls  from  the  hotel  went  home,  and 
Miss  Lucy  and  Mrs.  Barclay  lay  on  the  counter  in  the 
store,  trying  to  sleep.  They  awoke  with  the  sound  of 
music  in  their  ears,  and  Miss  Lucy  said,  "It's  Captain 
Ward  —  and  the  other  boys,  serenading  us."  They 
heard  the  high  tenor  voice  of  Watts  McHurdie  and  the 
strong  clear  voice  of  Ward  rising  above  the  accordion 
and  guitar  :  — 

"  For  her  voice  is  on  the  breeze, 

Her  spirit  comes  at  will, 
At  midnight  on  the  seas 

Her  bright  smile  haunts  me  still." 

And  underneath  these  high  voices  was  the  gruff  bass  voice 
of  Gabriel  Gamine  and  the  baritone  of  Jake  Dolan.  And 
when  Mrs.  Barclay  heard  the  piping  treble  of  her  son, 
and  the  tinkle  of  his  guitar,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  of 
pride. 

The  serenaders  waked  the  chickens,  and  the  crowing 
roosters  roused  Mrs.  Barclay,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the 
hour  she  forgot  to  look  for  her  son.  As  "  the  gray  dawn 
was  breaking,"  a  hundred  men  came  into  the  room,  and 
found  the  smoking  breakfast  on  the  table.  It  was  a 
good  breakfast  as  breakfasts  go  when  men  are  hungry. 
But  they  sat  in  silence  that  morning.  The  song  was  all 
out  of  them  ;  the  spring  of  youth  was  crushed  under  the 
weight  of  great  events.  And  as  they  rose  —  they  who 
had  been  so  merry  the  day  before,  and  had  joked  of  the 
things  the  soldier  fears,  they  were  all  but  mute,  and  left 
their  breakfasts  scarcely  tasted. 

The  women  remember  this,  —  the  telltale  sign  of  the 
untouched  breakfast,  —  and  their  memory  is  better  than 
that  of  Martin  Culpepper,  who  wrote  in  that  plumy  chap 
ter  of  the  Biography,  before  mentioned  :  — 

"  The  soldiers  left  their  homes  that  beautiful  August 
morning  as  the  sun  was  kissing  the  tips  of  the  sycamore 
that  gave  the  magnificent  little  city  its  name.  They  had 
partaken  abundantly  of  a  bountiful  breakfast,  and  as  they 
satisfied  their  inner  man  from  a  table  groaning  with  good 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  29 

things  prepared  by  the  fair  hands  of  the  gentler  sex,  the 
gallant  men  rose  with  song  and  cheer,  and  went  on  their 
happy  way  where  duty  and  honour  called  them." 

But  the  women  who  scraped  the  plates  that  morning 
knew  the  truth.  One  wonders  how  much  of  history 
would  be  thrown  out  as  worthless,  like  Martin  Culpep- 
per's  fine  writing,  if  the  women  who  scraped  the  plates 
might  testify.  For  those  "large  white  plumes"  do  not 
dance  in  women's  eyes! 

After  breakfast  the  men  tumbled  into  the  wagons,  and 
as  one  wagon  after  another  rattled  out  of  Fernald's 
feed  lot  and  came  down  the  street,  the  men  waved  their 
hats  and  the  women  waved  their  aprons,  and  a  great  cloud 
of  dust  rose  on  the  highway,  and  as  the  wagons  ducked 
down  the  bank  to  the  river,  only  the  tall  figure  of  Martin 
Culpepper,  waving  his  handkerchief,  rose  above  the  cloud. 
At  the  end  of  the  line  was  a  provision  wagon,  and  on  it 
rode  Philemon  Ward  —  Yankee  in  his  greatest  moment, 
scorning  the  heroic  place  in  the  van,  and  looking  after 
the  substantials.  In  the  feed  lot,  just  as  the  reins  were 
in  his  hands,  Ward  saw  Elmer  Hendricks'  foot  peeping 
from  under  a  saddle.  Ward  dragged  the  boy  out,  spank 
ing  him  as  he  came  over  the  end  gate,  and  noted  the 
sheepish  smile  on  his  face.  Ten  days  later,  as  Ward, 
marching  in  the  infantry,  was  going  up  a  hill  through  the 
timber  at  the  battle  of  Wilson's  Creek,  that  same  boy 
rode  by  with  the  cavalry,  and  seeing  Ward,  waved  a  car 
bine  and  smiled  as  he  charged  the  brow  of  the  hill.  That 
night,  going  back  under  the  stars,  Ward  stumbled  over  a 
body,  and  stooping,  saw  the  smile  still  on  the  boy's  face, 
and  the  carbine  clutched  in  his  hand.  But  for  the  hole 
through  the  boyish  brow,  the  eyes  might  still  have  been 
laughing. 


CHAPTER   III 

A  FEW  years  ago,  in  the  room  of  the  great  mahogany 
table,  with  its  clean  blotting  pad,  its  writing  tablet,  and 
its  superb  rose  rising  from  a  green  vase  in  the  midst  of  the 
shining  unlittered  expanse,  there  was  a  plain,  heavy  ma 
hogany  wainscoting  reaching  chin-high  to  the  average  man. 
A  few  soft-toned  pictures  adorned  the  dull  gray  walls 
above  the  wainscoting,  and  directly  over  a  massive  desk 
that  never  was  seen  open  hung  a  framed  letter.  The 
letter  was  written  on  blue-lined  paper  in  red  pokeberry 
ink.  At  the  top  of  the  letter  was  the  advertisement  of  a 
hotel,  done  in  quaint,  old-fashioned,  fancy  script  with 
many  curly-cues  and  printers'  ornaments.  The  adver 
tisement  set  forth  that  the  Thayer  House  at  Sycamore 
Ridge  was  "  First  class  in  every  particular,"  and  that  "Es 
pecial  attention  was  paid  to  transient  custom."  On  aline 
in  the  right-hand  corner  the  reader  was  notified  that  the 
tavern  was  founded  by  the  Emigrant  Aid  Society,  and 
balancing  this  line,  in  the  left-hand  corner,  were  these 
words  :  "  The  only  livery-stable  west  of  Lawrence."  John 
Barclay's  eyes  have  read  it  a  thousand  times,  and  yet  he 
always  smiled  when  he  scanned  the  letter  that  followed 
the  advertisement.  The  letter  read  :  — 

"  Dear  Ma  I  am  going  to  war.  Doan  crye.  Iff  fathei 
was  here  he  wood  go;  so  why  should  not  I.  I  will  be 
very  caerfull  not  to  get  hurt  &  stay  by  Cap  Ward  all  tho 
time.  So  godby  yours  truly  J.  Barclay  Jr." 

It  was  five  hours  after  the  soldiers  had  gone  when  Mrs. 
Barclay  came  home  from  her  work  in  the  aid  room,  and  the 
first  tiling  that  attracted  her  attention  was  her  son's  letter, 
lying  folded  on  the  table.  When  she  read  it,  she  ran  with 
the  open  letter  across  the  common  to  the  town.  It  was  a 
woman's  town  that  morning,  —  not  a  man  was  left  in  it,  — • 
for  Ezra  Lane,  the  only  old  man  living  in  the  Ridge,  had 

30 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  31 

left  Freedom's  Banner  to  shift  for  itself  while  he  rode  to 
Leavenworth  with  the  soldiers  to  bring  back  the  teams ;  and 
when  Mrs.  Barclay  came  into  the  street,  she  found  some 
small  stir  there,  made  by  Miss  Hendricks — the  only  mother 
the  Hendricks  boys  remembered  —  who  was  inquiring  for 
her  lost  boys.  Mrs.  Barclay  displayed  her  note,  and  in  a 
moment  the  whole  population  of  Sycamore  Ridge,  with 
hands  under  its  aprons,  was  standing  in  front  of  the  post- 
office.  Then  Ellen  Culpepper  found  her  tongue,  and  Mrs. 
Barclay  began  to  look  for  a  horse.  Elmer  Hendricks'  pony 
in  the  pasture  was  the  only  horse  Ward  had  left  within 
twenty  miles.  When  Ellen  Culpepper  and  her  little  sister 
Molly  came  back  from  the  pasture  and  announced  that 
Elmer's  pony  was  gone  also,  the  women  surmised  that  he 
had  taken  it  with  him,  for  they  could  not  know  that  after 
he  was  spanked  from  the  provision  wagon,  he  had  slipped 
out  to  the  pasture  and  ridden  by  a  circuitous  route  to  the 
main  road. 

It  was  Captain  Ward,  dismounting  from  his  driver's 
seat  on  the  provision  wagon  at  noon,  who  discovered  two 
boys :  a  little  boy  eleven  years  old  in  a  dead  faint,  and  a 
bigger  boy  panting  with  the  heat.  They  threw  cold 
spring  water  on  John  Barclay's  face,  and  finally  his  eyes 
opened,  and  he  grinned  as  he  whispered,  "  Hullo,  Captain," 
to  the  man  bending  over  him.  The  man  held  water  to 
the  boy's  lips,  and  he  sipped  a  little  and  swam  out  into  the 
blackness  again,  and  then  the  man  reappeared  and  the 
boy  tried  to  smile  and  whispered,  "Aw  —  I'm  all  right." 
They  saw  he  was  coming  out  of  his  faint,  and  one  by  one 
the  crowd  dropped  away  from  him  ;  but  Ward  stayed,  and 
when  the  child  could  speak,  he  replied  to  Ward's  question, 
"'Cause  I  wanted  to."  And  then  again  when  the  ques 
tion  was  repeated,  the  boy  said,  "  I  tell  you  'cause  I  wanted 
to."  He  shook  his  head  feebly  and  grinned  again  and 
tried  to  rise,  but  the  man  gently  held  him  down,  and  kept 
bathing  his  temples  with  cold  water  from  the  spring  be 
side  them.  Finally,  when  the  man  seemed  a  little  harsh  in 
his  questions,  the  boy's  eyes  brimmed  and  he  said :  "  Whur'd 
my  pa  be  if  he  was  alive  to-day  ?  I  just  guess  I  got  as 


32  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

much  right  here  as  you  have."  He  made  a  funny  little 
picture  lying  on  the  lush  grass  by  the  spring  in  the  woods; 
his  browned  face,  washed  clean  on  the  forehead  and  tem 
ples,  showed  almost  white  under  the  dirt.  There  were 
tear-stained  rings  about  the  eyes,  and  his  pink  shirt  and 
blue  trousers  were  grimy  with  dust,  and  the  red  clay  of 
the  Sycamore  still  was  on  the  sides  of  his  dust-brown  bare 
feet.  Around  a  big  toe  was  a  rag  which  showed  a  woman's 
tying  —  neat  and  firm  but  red  with  clay. 

Ward  left,  and  Bob  Hendricks  came  and  stood  over  the 
prostrate  boy.  Bob  was  carrying  a  bucket  of  water  to  the 
cook  as  a  peace  offering. 

"  What  did  they  do  ?  "  asked  the  boy  on  the  ground. 

"  Just  shook  me  —  and  then  said  f ather'd  tend  to  me  for 
this."  The  boys  exchanged  comments  on  the  situation 
without  words,  and  then  Bob  said  as  he  drew  the  dripping 
bucket  from  the  spring,  "  We're  going  clear  on  to  Leaven- 
worth,  and  they  say  then  we've  got  to  come  back  with 
Ezra  Lane  and  the  teams." 

The  boy  on  the  ground  raised  himself  by  rolling  over 
and  catching  hold  of  a  sapling.  He  panted  a  moment,  and 
"I'll  bet  y'  I  don't."  The  other  boy  went  away  with  a 
weak  "  Me  neither,"  thrown  over  his  shoulder. 

During  that  long  afternoon,  and  all  the  next  day  and 
the  next,  the  boys  ran  from  wagon  to  wagon,  climbing 
over  end  gates,  wriggling  among  the  men,  running  with 
the  horses  through  the  shady  woods,  paddling  in  the  fords, 
and  only  refusing  to  move  when  the  men  got  out  of  the 
wagons  and  walked  up  the  long  clay  hills  that  rise  above  the 
Kaw  River.  At  night  they  camped  by  the  prairie  streams, 
and  the  men  sang  and  wondered  what  they  were  doing  at 
home,  and  Philemon  Ward  took  John  Barclay  out  into  the 
silence  of  the  woods  and  made  him  say  his  prayers.  And 
Ward  would  look  toward  the  west  and  say,  "  Well,  Johnnie, 
—  there's  home,"  and  once  they  stood  in  an  open  place  in 
the  timber,  and  Ward  gazed  at  a  bright  star  sinking  in  the 
west,  and  said,  "  I  guess  that's  about  over  Sycamore 
Ridge."  They  went  on,  and  the  boy,  looking  back  to  see 
why  the  man  had  stopped,  caught  him  throwing  a  kiss  at 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  33 

the  star.  And  they  could  not  know,  as  they  walked  back 
together  through  the  woods  abashed,  that  two  women  sit 
ting  before  a  cabin  door  under  a  sycamore  tree  were  look 
ing  at  an  eastern  star,  and  one  threw  kisses  at  it  unashamed 
while  the  other  wept.  And  on  other  nights,  many  other 
nights,  the  two,  Miss  Lucy  and  Mrs.  Barclay,  sat  looking 
at  their  star  while  the  terror  in  their  hearts  made  their 
lips  mute.  God  makes  men  brave  who  stand  where  bullets 
fly,  yet  always  they  can  run  away.  But  God  seems  to  give 
no  alternative  to  women  at  home  who  have  to  wait  and 
dread. 

Forty  years  later  John  Barclay  took  from  a  box  in  a 
safety  vault  back  of  his  office  in  the  city  a  newspaper.  It 
was  the  Sycamore  Ridge  Banner,  yellow  and  creased  and 
pungent  with  age.  "  This,"  he  said  to  Senator  Myton, 
spreading  the  wrinkled  sheet  out  on  the  mahogany  table, 
"this  is  my  enlistment  paper."  He  smiled  as  he  read 
aloud :  — 

"  At  noon  of  our  first  day  out  we  came  across  two  stow 
aways.  Hendricks,  aged  twelve,  son  of  our  well-known 
and  popular  Mayor,  and  J.  Barclay,  aged  eleven,  son  of 
Mrs.  M.  Barclay,  who,  owing  to  the  suddenness  of  the  de 
parture  of  our  troops  for  the  seat  of  war  in  Missouri,  and 
certain  business  delays  made  necessary  in  ye  editor's  re 
turn,  were  slipped  out  with  our  company  rather  than  left 
in  the  rough  and  uncertain  city  of  Leavenworth.  They 
are  called  by  the  boys  of  c  C '  company  respectively  '  the 
little  sergeant  and  the  little  corporal,  Good  Luck  boys.' ' 

A  little  farther  down  the  column  was  this  paragraph : 

"  Aug.  2nd  we  went  into  camp  on  Sugar  Creek,  and  some 
sport  was  had  by  the  men  who  went  in  bathing,  taking  the 
horses  with  them." 

"  Ever  go  in  swimming  with  the  horses,  Senator  ?  "  asked 
Barclay.  The  senator  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  Well  —  you  haven't.  For  if  you  had  you'd  remember 
it,"  answered  Barclay,  and  a  hundred  naked  young  men 
and  two  skinny,  bony  boys  splashed  and  yelled  and  ducked 
and  wrestled  and  locked  their  strong  wet  arms  about  the 
necks  of  the  plunging  horses  and  dived  under  them,  and 


34  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

rolled  across  them  and  played  with  them  like  young  satyrs 
in  the  cool  water  under  the  overhanging  elms  with  the 
stars  twinkling  in  the  shining  mahogany  as  Barclay  folded 
the  paper  and  put  it  away.  He  thrummed  the  polished 
surface  a  moment  and  looked  back  into  the  past  to  see 
Philemon  Ward  straight,  lean,  and  glistening  like  a  god 
standing  on  a  horse  ready  to  dive,  and  as  he  huddled, 
•crouched  for  the  leap,  Barclay  said,  "  Well,  come  on,  Sen 
ator,  we  must  go  to  lunch  now." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  their  third  day's  journey 
that  the  men  from  Sycamore  Ridge  rode  in  close  order, 
singing,  through  the  streets  of  Leavenworth.  Watts  Mc- 
Hurdie  was  playing  his  accordion,  and  the  people  turned 
to  look  at  the  uncouth  crowd  in  civilian's  clothes  that 
went  bellowing  "  O  My  Darling  Nellie  Gray,"  across  the 
town  and  out  to  the  Fort.  Ezra  Lane  promised  to  call 
at  the  Fort  for  the  two  boys  and  with  drivers  for  the 
teams  early  the  next  morning  —  but  to  Sycamore  Ridge, 
Leavenworth  in  those  days  was  the  great  city  with  its 
pitfalls,  and  when  Ezra  Lane,  grizzled  though  he  was, 
came  to  a  realizing  sense  of  his  responsibilities,  the  next 
day  was  gone  and  the  third  was  waning.  When  he 
went  to  the  Fort,  he  found  the  Sycamore  Ridge  men  had 
been  hurried  into  Missouri  to  meet  General  Price,  who 
was  threatening  Springfield,  and  no  word  had  been  left 
for  him  about  the  boys.  As  he  left  the  gate  at  the 
Fort,  a  troop  of  cavalry  rode  by  gaily,  and  a  boy,  a  big 
overgrown  fourteen-year-old  boy  in  a  blue  uniform,  passed 
and  waved  his  hand  at  the  befuddled  old  man,  and  cried, 
"  Good-by,  Mr.  Lane,  —  tell  'em  you  saw  me."  He  knew 
the  boy  was  from  Sycamore  Ridge,  but  he  knew  also 
that  he  was  not  one  of  the  boys  who  had  come  with  the 
soldiers;  and  being  an  old  man,  far  removed  from  the  boy 
world,  he  could  not  place  the  child  in  his  blue  uniform, 
so  he  drove  away  puzzled. 

The  afternoon  the  men  from  Sycamore  Ridge  came  to 
Leavenworth  they  were  hurriedly  examined  again,  signed 
the  muster  rolls,  and  were  sent  away  without  uniforms 
all  in  twenty -four  hours.  But  not  before  they  had  found 


A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  35 

time  to  have  their  pictures  taken  in  borrowed  regimentals. 
For  twenty  years  after  the  war  the  daguerreotypes  of  the 
soldiers  taken  at  Leavenworth  that  day  were  the  proudest 
adornments  of  the  centre-tables  of  Sycamore  Ridge,  and 
even  now  on  Lincoln  Avenue,  in  a  little  white  cottage 
with  green  blinds,  that  sits  in  a  broad  smooth  lawn  with 
elm  trees  on  it,  stands  an  easel.  On  the  easel  is  a  picture 

—  an  enlarged  crayon   drawing  of  a  straight,  handsome 
young  fellow  in  a  captain's  uniform.     One  hand  is  in  his 
coat,  and  the  other  at  his  hip.     His  head  is  thrown  back 
with  a  fierce  determination  into  the  photographer's  iron 
rest  and  all  together  the  picture  is  marked  with  the  wrin 
kled  front  of  war.     For  over  one  corner  of  the  easel  hangs 
a  sword  with  an  ivory  handle,  and  upon  it  is  an  inscrip 
tion  proclaiming  the  fact  that  the  sword  was  presented 
to    Captain   Philemon   R.    Ward    by    his    company    for 
gallant  conduct  on  the  field  of   battle  on   the   night  of 
August  4,  1861.     Above  the  easel  in  the   corner   hangs 
another  picture  —  that  of  a  sweet-faced  old  man  of  seventy, 
beaming  rather  benignly  over  his  white  lawn  necktie.     The 
forty-five  years  that  have  passed  between  the  two  faces 
have  trimmed  the  hair  away  from  the  temples  and  the  brow, 
have  softened  the  mouth,  and  have  put  patience  into  the 
eyes  —  the  patience  of  a  great  faith  often  tried  but  never 
broken.     The  five  young  women  of  the  household  know 
that  the  crayon  portrait  on  the  bamboo  easel  is  highly  im 
proper  as  a  parlour  ornament  — for  do  they  not  teach  school, 
and  do  they  not  take  all  the  educational  journals  and  the 
crafty  magazines  of  art  ?     But  the  hand  that  put  it  there 
was  proud  of  its  handiwork,  and  she  who  hung  the  sword 
upon  the  easel  is  gone  away,  so  the  girls  smile  at  the  fierce 
young  boyish  face  in  the  picture  as  they  pass  it,  and  throw 
a  kiss  at  the  face  above  it,  and  the  easel  is  not  moved. 

And  the  man,  —  the  tall  old  man  with  a  slight  stoop  in 
his  shoulders,  the  old  man  who  wears  the  alpaca  coat  and 
the  white  lawn  tie  seen  in  the  upper  picture,  —  sometimes 
he  wanders  into  the  stately  front  room  with  a  finger  in  a 
census  bulletin  as  a  problem  in  his  head  creases  his  brow 

—  and  the  sight  of  the  sword  always  makes  him  smile,  and 


36  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

sometimes  the  smile  is  a  chuckle  that  stirs  the  cockles  of 
his  heart. 

For  his  mind  goes  back  to  that  summer  night  of  August 
4,  1861,  and  he  sees  himself  riding  on  a  horse  with  a  little 
boy  behind  with  his  arms  in  the  soldier's  belt.  It  is  dusk, 
and  "  C  "  Company  on  foot  is  filing  down  a  Missouri  hill. 
It  is  a  muddy  road,  and  the  men  are  tired  and  dirty.  There 
is  no  singing  now.  A  man  driving  an  ox  team  has  turned 
out  of  the  road  to  let  the  soldiers  pass.  Some  one  in  the 
line  asks  the  man,  "  Where's  Price  ?  " 

"  Over  the  hill  yonder,"  replies  the  man,  pointing  with 
his  hickory  whip-stock.  The  word  buzzes  up  and  down 
the  line.  The  captain  on  his  horse  with  the  boy  clutch 
ing  at  his  belt  does  not  hear  it.  But  the  line  lags  and 
finally  halts.  The  men  have  been  only  two  days  under 
military  discipline.  That  day  last  week  Phil  Ward  — 
who  was  he,  anyway  ?  Henry  Schnitzler  and  Oscar  Fer- 
nald  could  have  bought  him  and  sold  him  twice  over. 
So  the  line  halted.  Then  the  captain  halted.  Then  he 
called  Second  Lieutenant  Dolan  and  asked  to  know  what 
was  the  matter.  "  They  say  they  are  going  to  camp," 
responded  Dolan,  touching  his  cap.  Captain  Ward's  face 
flushed.  He  told  Dolan  to  give  the  order  to  march. 
There  were  shouts  and  laughter,  and  Gabriel  Carnine 
cried,  "  Say,  Phil,  this  here  Missourian  we  passed  says  old 
General  Price  is  over  that  hill."  The  boys  laughed  again, 
and  Ward  saw  that  trouble  was  before  him.  The  men 
stood  waiting  while  he  controlled  his  rage  before  he  spoke. 
Dolan  said  under  his  breath  from  the  ground  beside  the 
horse,  "  They're  awful  tired,  Cap,  and  they  don't  want  to 
tackle  Price's  army  all  by  their  lonelies."  Some  one  in 
the  company  called  out,  "  We've  voted  on  this  thing,  Cap. 
Don't  the  majority  rule  in  this  country  ?  " 

A  smile  twitched  at  Ward's  mouth  and  the  boy  in  him 
pricked  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  for  he  was  only  twenty-six, 
and  he  laughed  —  threw  his  head  back  and  then  leaned 
over  and  slapped  the  horse's  neck  and  finally  straight 
ened  up  and  said,  "  Gentlemen,  I  bow  to  the  will  of  the 
people." 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  37 

And  so  it  happened  that  when  they  drew  their  first 
month's  pay,  Martin  Culpepper  and  Jake  Dolan  sug 
gested  to  the  company  that  they  buy  Ward  a  sword  to 
commemorate  the  victory  of  the  people.  And  Martin 
Culpepper  made  a  great  presentation  speech  in  which  he 
said  that  to  the  infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery  arms  of 
military  service, "  C  "  Company  had  added  the  "vox  populi." 
But  the  night  after  the  presentation  Oscar  Fernald  and 
Watts  McHurdie  crawled  under  the  captain's  tent  and 
stole  the  sword  and  pawned  it  for  beer,  and  there  was 
a  sound  of  revelry  by  night. 

When  they  found  the  great  camp  near  Springfield,  it 
seemed  to  John  Barclay  that  all  the  soldiers  in  the  world 
were  gathered.  It  is  difficult  for  a  boy  under  a  dozen  years 
to  remember  things  consecutively ;  because  boys  do  not  do 
things  consecutively.  They  flit  around  like  butterflies,  and 
so  the  picture  that  they  make  of  events  jumps  from  scene 
to  scene.  One  film  on  a  roll  of  John's  memory  showed  a 
hot  August  day  in  the  camp  of  "  C  "  Company  ;  the  men 
are  hurrying  about  the  place.  The  tents  are  down  ;  the 
boys  —  John  and  Bob  —  are  kicking  around  the  vacant 
camp  looking  for  trophies.  But  there  the  film  broke 
and  did  not  record  the  fact  that  Captain  Ward  put  Bob 
and  John  on  a  commissary  wagon  that  stood  in  a  side 
street  as  the  soldiers  moved  out.  John  remembered 
looking  into  a  street  filled  with  marching  soldiers.  First 
the  regulars  and  the  artillery  came  swinging  down  the 
street.  At  their  head  the  boy  saw  General  Lyon,  the 
commanding  officer,  and  around  him  was  a  body-guard 
whose  plumed  hats,  with  the  left  brim  pinned  up,  caught 
the  boys'  eyes.  The  regulars  marched  by  silently.  It 
was  part  of  their  day's  work  ;  but  following  them  came  a 
detachment  of  Germans  singing  "  Marchen  Rote,"  and 
then  the  battery  of  six  guns  and  then  the  Kansans. 
Small  wonder  Captain  Gordon  Granger  told  Colonel 
Mitchel  that  the  Kansas  soldiers  were  only  an  armed 
mob.  They  filed  out  of  Springfield,  some  in  rags  and 
some  in  tags  and  some  in  velvet  gowns.  They  carried 
guns  ;  but  they  looked  like  delegates  to  a  convention, 


38  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

and  as  the  boys  saw  their  own  company,  they  waved 
their  hands,  but  they  were  almost  ashamed  of  the  shabby 
clothes  of  the  men  from  Sycamore  Ridge ;  for  a  boy 
always  notices  clothes  on  others.  When  the  Germans 
stopped  singing  "  Marchen  Rote,"  the  boys  heard  Watts 
McHurdie's  high  tenor  voice  start  up  "  The  Dutch  Com- 
panee,"  and  the  crowd  that  was  lining  the  street  cheered 
and  cheered.  A  Missouri  regiment  followed  and  more 
regulars,  and  then  a  battery  of  four  guns  passed,  and  then 
came  more  Kansans  still  going  to  that  everlasting  con 
vention.  And  a  band  came  roaring  by,  —  with  its  crash 
ing  brass  and  rumbling  drums,  —  and  then  after  the  band 
had  turned  the  corner,  came  Iowa  in  gray  blouses  and 
such  other  garments  as  the  clothes-lines  of  the  country 
afforded.  They  were  singing  as  they  passed  —  a  song 
the  boy  had  never  heard,  being  all  about  the  "  happy  land 
of  Canaan."  And  before  the  sun  had  set  again,  after  that 
night,  hundreds  of  those  who  sang  of  the  happy  land  were 
there.  In  the  rear  were  the  ambulances  and  the  ammuni 
tion  and  the  hospital  vans,  and  the  wagon  which  held  the 
boys  wheeled  into  the  line.  After  they  had  passed,  the 
streets  were  clogged  with  carts  and  drays  and  wagons  of 
all  sorts,  for  the  citizens  were  moving  to  places  of  safety. 
As  a  man,  the  boy's  memory  did  not  tell  him  how  the 
boys  fared,  but  he  does  remember  that  it  was  dark  in  the 
timber  where  they  camped  that  night,  and  that  they  slipped 
away  into  the  woods  to  lie  down  together.  The  chirping 
of  the  birds  at  dawn  wakened  them,  and  as  John  sat  up 
rubbing  his  eyes,  he  heard  a  rifle's  crack.  They  were  at 
the  edge  of  a  field,  and  half  a  mile  from  him,  troops  were 
marching  by  columns  across  a  clearing.  The  rifle-shot 
was  followed  by  another,  and  another,  and  then  by  a  half- 
dozen.  "  Wake  up,  Bob  —  wake  up  —  they's  a  battle,"  he 
cried,  and  the  two  boys  stumbled  to  their  feet.  The  shots 
were  far  in  front  of  the  marching  soldiers,  and  the  boys 
could  not  make  out  what  the  firing  meant.  The  line 
formed  and  ran  up  the  hill,  and  the  boys  saw  the  morning 
sun  flashing  on  the  guns  of  the  enemy.  The  battery  roared, 
and  the  boys  were  filled  with  terror.  They  ran  through 


A  CERTAIN  HIGH  MAN  39 

the  woods  like  dogs  until  they  came  to  the  soldiers  from 
Sycamore  Ridge.  The  boys  crawled  on  their  bellies  to 
their  friends,  and  lay  with  their  faces  all  but  buried  in 
the  ground.  The  men  were  lying  at  the  edge  of  the  tim 
ber  talking,  and  Watts  McHurdie  was  on  his  back. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Watts?"  asked  Oscar 
Fernald. 

44  Os,"  replied  Watts,  "  I  got  a  presentiment  I'm  goin' 
to  be  shot  in  the  rear.  It  will  kill  me  to  be  shot  in  the 
back,  and  I've  got  a  notion  that's  how  I  am  goin'  to  die." 

The  line  laughed.  Captain  Ward,  who  was  sitting  a 
few  paces  in  the  rear  of  the  men,  went  over  to  Watts,  and 
scuffled  the  man  over  with  his  foot.  A  bullet  went  through 
Ward's  hat  before  he  got  back  to  his  place.  The  men  were 
sticking  up  ramrods  and  betting  on  the  number  of  minutes 
they  would  last.  No  ramrod  stood  more  than  ten  minutes. 
Martin  Culpepper  threw  up  his  hat  five  times  before  a  bul 
let  hit  it;  but  he  went  bareheaded  the  rest  of  the  day, 
and  John  Barclay,  in  sheer  fear,  began  to  dig  a  hole  under 
him.  After  he  had  been  on  his  belly  for  an  hour,  Henry 
Schnitzler  got  tired  and  rose.  The  men  begged  him  to  lie 
down.  But  his  only  reply  when  they  told  him  he  was  a  fool 
was, "  Veil,  vot  of  it  ? "  And  when  they  said  he  would  be 
shot,  he  answered  again,  "  Veil,  vot  of  it  ?  "  And  when 
Jake  Dolan  cried,  "  You  pot-gutted  Dutchman,  sit  down 
or  there'll  be  a  sauer-kraut  shower  in  hell  pretty  quick," 
Henry  shook  his  fat  sides  a  moment  and  laughed,  "  Veil, 
vot  of  clot  —  altzo!"  For  an  hour,  that  seemed  ten,  he 
moved  back  and  forth  on  the  line,  firing  and  joking,  and 
then  the  spell  broke  and  a  bullet  took  part  of  his  jaw.  As 
he  dropped  to  his  position,  with  the  blood  gushing  from 
his  face,  his  eyes  blazed,  and  he  spat  out,  "  By  hell-tarn, 
now  I  vos  mad,"  and  he  fought  the  day  out  and  died  that 
night.  But  as  he  sank  to  his  place  when  the  bullet  hit 
him,  Watts  McHurdie  saw  Schnitzler  stagger,  and  through 
the  smoke,  knew  that  he  was  wounded.  Watts  rushed  to 
Schnitzler  and  bent  over  him,  when  a  ball  hit  Watts  and 
went  ripping  through  the  fleshy  part  of  his  hip.  "  Shot  in 
the  back  — -  damn  it,  shot  in  the  back  I  "  he  screamed,  as 


40  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

he  jumped  into  the  air.  "  What  did  I  tell  you,  boys, 
I'm  shot  in  the  back."  And  he  crawled  bleeding  to  the 
rear. 

All  the  long  forenoon  frhe  camp  of  the  enemy  continued 
to  belch  out  men.  The  battery  mowed  them  down,  and 
once  the  Kansans  were  ordered  to  charge  the  hill,  and  the 
boys  were  left  alone.  It  was  there  that  the  two  were 
separated.  John  saw  men  sink  in  awful  silence,  and  the 
blood  ooze  from  their  heads.  He  saw  men  cramp  in  agony 
and  choke  with  blood,  and  he  saw  Martin  Culpepper,  per 
haps  with  the  large  white  plumes  still  dancing  in  his  eyes, 
dash  out  of  the  line  and  pick  up  a  Union  banner  that  Sigel's 
men  had  lost,  and  that  the  enemy  was  flaunting  just  before 
the  artillery  mowed  the  gray  line  down.  He  heard  the 
hoarse  men  cheer  Martin,  and  as  the  tall  swart  figure  came 
running  back  waving  the  flag,  the  boy  prayed  to  his  father's 
God  to  save  the  man. 

When  the  battle  lulled,  the  boy  found  himself  parted 
from  "  C  "  Company,  and  fled  back  through  the  woods  to  the 
rear.  There  he  came  upon  a  smell  that  was  familiar.  He 
had  known  it  in  the  slaughter-house  at  home.  It  was  the 
smell  of  fresh  blood,  and  with  it  came  the  sickening  drone 
of  flies.  In  an  instant  he  stood  under  a  tree  where  men 
were  working  smeared  with  blood.  He  stumbled  over  a 
little  pile  of  dismembered  legs  and  hands.  A  man  with  a 
bloody  knife  was  bending  over  a  human  form  stretched  on 
a  bloody  and,  it  seemed  to  the  boy,  a  greasy  table.  An 
other  was  helping  the  big  man.  They  were  cutting  the 
bullet  out  of  Watts  McHurdie,  who  was  lying  white  and 
unconscious  and  with  flies  crawling  over  him,  half  naked 
and  blood-smeared,  on  the  table.  The  boy  screamed,  and 
the  man  turned  his  head  and  snarled  through  his  clenched 
teeth  that  held  the  knife,  "  Get  out  of  here  —  no — go  get 
me  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  creek."  Some  one  handed 
the  boy  a  bucket,  and  he  ran  where  he  was  told  to  go,  with 
the  awful  sight  burned  on  his  brain,  with  the  sickening 
smell  in  his  nose,  and  with  the  drone  of  flies  in  his  ears. 
When  he  came  back  the  firing  had  begun  again.  The 
surgeon  was  saying,  "  Well,  that's  all  that's  waiting — now 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  41 

I'm  going  for  a  minute."  He  grabbed  a  gun  standing  by 
the  table  and  ran  toward  the  front ;  he  did  not  take  off 
his  blood-splotched  apron,  and  the  boy  fled  from  the  place 
in  terror.  In  a  few  moments  the  firing  ceased  ;  but  the 
boy  ran  on,  hunting  for  a  hiding-place.  He  saw  a  troop 
of  Alabamians  plunge  over  a  log  in  a  charge,  and  roll 
in  an  awful,  writhing,  screaming  pile  of  dying  men  and 
horses,  and  in  the  heap  he  saw  the  terror-stricken  face  of 
a  youth,  who  was  shrieking  for  help ;  John  carried  that 
fear-distorted  face  in  his  memory  for  years,  until  long 
afterwards  it  appeared  in  Sycamore  Ridge. 

But  that  day  John  fled  from  the  death-trap  almost  mad 
with  fear.  Rushing  farther  into  the  woods,  he  came  upon 
General  Lyon  and  his  staff.  The  plumed  hats  of  the  body 
guard  told  the  boy  that  the  sandy-haired  man  before  him 
was  in  command,  though  the  man's  face  was  bloody  from 
a  wound  in  his  head,  and  though  his  clothes  were  stained 
with  blood  and  he  was  hatless.  He  sat  upright  on  his 
horse,  and  as  the  boy  turned,  he  heard  the  voices  of  Cap 
tain  Ward  and  his  soldiers,  begging  to  be  sent  into  the 
fight.  It  was  a  clamour  fierce  and  piteous,  and  the  gen 
eral  had  turned  his  head  to  the  Kansans,  when  something 
at  the  left  startled  him.  There  was  no  firing,  and  a  column 
of  soldiers  was  approaching.  Doubt  paralyzed  the  group 
around  Lyon  for  a  moment.  The  men  wore  gray  blouses 
strangely  like  those  the  lowans  wore.  The  men  might  be 
Sigel's  men,  coming  back  from  their  artillery  duel.  The 
general  plainly  was  puzzled.  He  rode  out  from  the  body 
guard  a  few  paces.  The  boy  was  staring  at  him,  when  the 
body-guard  with  their  gay  plumed  hats  came  up,  and  he 
saw  wrath  flash  into  the  general's  face  as  he  recognized 
the  enemy.  "Shoot  them  —  shoot  them  —  "  he  shouted. 
But  the  gray  line  vomited  its  smoke  first,  and  the  boy  felt 
his  foot  afire.  The  general  dropped  from  his  horse,  and 
as  the  boy  looked  down,  he  saw  a  red  blot  coming  out  on 
his  instep.  In  the  same  instant  he  saw  Captain  Ward  rush 
to  the  falling  general,  and  saw  the  body-guard  gather 
about  him,  and  then  the  blackness  came  over  the  child  and 
he  fell.  He  did  not  see  them  bear  General  Lyon's  body 


42  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

into  the  brush,  nor  hear  Ward  moan  his  sorrow.  But 
when  Ward  returned  from  the  thicket,  he  saw  the  child 
lying  limp  on  the  grass. 

As  Ward  ran  toward  the  hospital  van  carrying  the  limp 
little  body,  he  could  see  that  a  ball  had  pierced  the  boy's 
foot.  Also  he  saw  the  men  in  retreat  who  had  shot  Lyon, 
and  all  over  the  field  the  firing  had  ceased.  As  he  hurried 
through  the  underbrush,  Ward  ran  into  Bob  Hendricks 
hiding  in  the  thicket.  Ward  took  the  child's  hand  and 
he  began  to  sob :  "  I  saw  Elmer  go  up  that  hill,  Captain ; 
I  saw  him  go  up  with  the  horses  and  he  ain't  come  back." 
But  Ward  did  not  understand  him,  and  hurried  the  little 
fellow  along  with  John  to  the  surgeon. 

Then  Ward  left  them,  and  when  John  Barclay  opened 
his  eyes,  Bob  Hendricks  was  sitting  beside  him.  A  great 
lint  bandage  was  about  John's  foot,  and  they  were  in  a 
wagon  jolting  over  a  rutty  road.  He  did  not  speak  for  a 
long  time,  and  then  he  asked,  "  Did  we  whip  'em?  " 

And  Bob  nodded  and  said,  "  Cap  says  so  !  " 

The  children  clasped  hands  and  talked  of  many  things 
that  passed  from  the  boy's  mind.  But  his  mind  recorded 
that  the  next  day  in  the  hospital  Martin  Culpepper  said, 
"  Bob  can't  come  to-day,  Johnnie ;  you  know  he's  tendin* 
Elmer's  funeral."  The  boy  must  have  opened  his  eyes,  for 
the  man  said,  "  Why,  Johnnie,  I  thought  you  knew ;  yes ; 
they  found  him  dead  that  night  —  right  under  the  reb  — 
under  the  enemies'  guns  on  the  brink  of  the  hill." 

The  child's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  he  did  not  cry* 
His  emotion  was  spent.  The  two  sat  together  for  a  time, 
and  the  little  boy  said,  "  Why  didn't  you  go,  Mr.  Cul 
pepper?"  And  the  man  replied:  "Me?  Oh  —  why  — 
Oh,  yes,  I  got  a  little  scratch  here  in  my  leg,  and  they 
won't  let  me  out  of  here.  There's  Watts  over  there  in 
the  next  cot ;  he  got  a  little  scratch  too  —  didn't  you, 
Watts?"  Watts  and  the  boy  smiled  at  each  other,  but 
John  did  not  see  Bob  again  for  years.  Miss  Hendricks 
came  and  took  him  to  their  father's  people  in  Ohio. 

One  day  some  one  came  in  the  hospital  where  John  and 
Watts  and  Martin  Culpepper  were  lying,  and  began  to 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  43 

call  out  mail  for  the  men,  and  the  third  name  the  corporal 
called  was  "  Captain  Martin  Culpepper  "  ;  and  when  they 
brought  him  a  long  official  envelope  with  General  Fre*- 
mont's  name  on  it,  Martin  Culpepper  held  it  in  his  hands, 
looked  at  the  inscription,  read  the  word  "  captain  "  again 
and  again,  and  could  not  speak  for  choked  joy.  And  tears 
so  dimmed  his  eyes  that  he  could  not  see  the  "  large  white 
plumes  "  of  chivalry,  but  the  men  in  the  beds  cheered  as 
they  heard  the  words  the  corporal  read. 

With  such  music  as  that  in  his  ears,  and  with  his  soul 
stirred  by  the  events  about  him,  Watts  McHurdie,  lying 
in  the  hospital,  wrote  the  song  that  made  him  famous. 
They  know  in  Sycamore  Ridge  that  Watts  is  not  much  of 
a  poet,  that  his  rhymes  are  sometimes  bad  and  his  metre 
worse.  But  once  his  heart  took  fire  and  burned  for  a  day 
sheer  white,  and  in  that  day  he  wrote  words  that  a  nation 
sang,  and  now  all  the  world  is  singing.  And  they  are 
proud  of  him,  and  when  people  come  to  Sycamore  Ridge 
on  pilgrimages  to  see  the  author  of  the  song,  men  do  not 
smile  in  wonder;  they  show  the  visitors  his  shop,  and 
point  out  the  bowed  little  man  bending  over  his  bench, 
stretching  his  arms  out  as  he  sews,  and  they  point  him 
out  with  pride.  Not  even  John  Barclay  with  all  his  mill 
ions,  or  Bob  Hendricks,  who  once  refused  a  place  in  the 
President's  cabinet,  are  more  esteemed  in  Sycamore  Ridge 
than  the  little  harness  maker  who  set  the  world  to  singing. 

And  curiously  enough,  John  Barclay  was  with  Watts 
McHurdie  when  he  wrote  the  song.  They  brought  him 
an  accordion  one  day  while  he  was  getting  well,  and  the 
two  sat  together.  Watts  droned  along  and  shut  his  eyes 
and  mumbled  some  words,  and  then  burst  out  with  the 
chorus.  jOver  and  over  he  sang  it  and  exclaimed  be 
tween  breaths  :  "Say  —  ain't  that  fine?  I* just  made  it 
up."  He  was  exalted  with  his  performance,  and  some 
women  came  loitering  down  the  corridor  where  the 
wounded  man  and  the  boy  were  lying.  The  visitors  gazed 
compassionately  at  them  —  little  Watts  not  much  larger 
than  the  boy.  A  woman  asked,  "  And  where  were  you 
wounded,  son  ? "  looking  at  Watts  with  his  accordion. 


44  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

His  face  flushed  up  at  the  thought  of  his  shame,  and  he 
could  not  keep  back  the  tears  that  always  betrayed  him 
when  he  was  deeply  moved.  "  Ten  —  ten  miles  from 
Springfield,  madam,  ten  miles  from  Springfield."  And 
to  hide  his  embarrassment  he  began  sawing  at  his  ac 
cordion,  chanting  his  famous  song.  But  being  only 
little  boy,  John  Barclay  tittered. 

A  few  days  after  the  battle  Captain  Ward  wrote  to 
Miss  Lucy  telling  her  that  some  soldiers  slightly  wounded 
would  go  home  on  a  furlough  to  Lawrence,  and  that  they 
would  take  John  with  them  and  put  him  on  the  stage  at 
Lawrence  for  Sycamore  Ridge.  Then  Ward's  letter  con 
tinued  :  "  It  is  all  so  horrible  —  this  curse  of  war  ;  some 
times  I  think  it  is  worse  than  the  curse  of  slavery.  There 
is  no  'pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war.'  Men 
died  screaming  in  agony,  or  dumb  with  fear.  They  were 
covered  with  dirt,  and  when  they  were  dead  they  merged 
into  the  landscape  like  inanimate  things.  What  vital 
difference  is  there  between  a  living  man  and  a  dead  man, 
that  one  stands  out  in  a  scene  big  and  obtrusive,  and  the 
other  begins  to  fade  into  the  earth  as  soon  as  death 
touches  the  body  ?  The  horror  of  death  is  upon  me,  and 
I  cannot  shake  it  off.  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  see  a  hu 
man  soul  pass  'in  any  shape,  in  any  mood.'  And  I  have 
seen  so  many  deaths  —  we  lost  one  man  out  of  every 
three  —  that  I  am  all  unnerved.  I  saw  General  Lyon 
die  —  the  only  abolitionist  in  the  regular  army,  they  say. 
He  died  like  a  soldier  —  but  not  as  the  soldiers  die  in 
pictures.  He  sank  off  his  horse  so  limp,  and  so  like  an 
animal  with  its  death  wound,  and  gasped  so  weakly,  '  I'm 
killed  —  take  care  of  my  body,'  that  when  we  covered  his 
face  and  bore  him  away,  we  could  not  realize  we  were 
carrying  a  man's  body.  And  now,  my  dear,  if  I  should 
go  as  these  men  go,  I  have  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  mourn 
me  —  only  you,  and  you  must  not  mourn,  for  I  shall  be 
near  you  always  and  always,  without  sign  or  token,  and 
when  you  feel  my  presence  near,  know  that  it  is  real, 
and  not  a  seeming.  For  the  great  force  of  life  that  moves 
events  in  this  world  has  but  one  symbol,  but  one  vital 


v  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  45 

manifestation,  and  that  is  love,  and  when  a  soul  is 
touched  with  that,  it  is  immortal." 

But  Martin  Culpepper,  with  his  dancing  plumes,  saw 
things  in  another  light.  Perhaps  we  always  see  things 
in  another  light  when  forty  years  have  passed  over  them. 
But  in  his  chapter  "The  Shrill  Trump,"  in  the  Biog 
raphy,  he  writes  :  " '  O  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude 
throats  the  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamours  counterfeit,' 
O  for  the  'spirit-stirring  drum,  and  the  ear-splitting 
fife'  'in  these  piping  times  of  peace.'  Small  wonder  it 
was  that  with  the  clang  and  clank  of  sabre  and  artillery 
in  his  ears,  with  the  huzzas  of  comrades  and  the  sparkle 
of  the  wine  of  war  in  his  eyes,  our  hero  wrote  the  never 
dying  words  that  made  him  famous.  How  the  day  comes 
back  with  all  its  pageantry,  the  caparisoned  horses,  the 
handsome  men  stepping  to  the  music  of  inspiring  melody, 
the  clarion  commands  of  the  officers,  and  the  steady  rum 
ble  of  a  thousand  feet  upon  the  battle  ground,  going  care 
less  whether  to  death  or  immortality  in  deathless  fame." 

A  curious  thing  is  that  deathless  fame  which  Martin 
speaks  of  —  a  passing  curious  thing  ;  for  when  word  came 
of  Henry  Schnitzler's  death,  Mary  Murphy,  of  the  Thayer 
House,  put  off  Gabriel  Carnine's  ring,  and  wept  many 
tears  in  the  stage  driver's  coffee  and  wore  black  in  her  hat 
for  a  year,  and  when  Gabriel  came  home,  she  married  him 
and  all  went  as  merrily  as  a  wedding-bell.  What  covert 
tenderness  or  dream  of  gauzy  romance  was  in  her  memory, 
the  town  could  never  know ;  but  the  Gamines'  first  boy 
was  named  Henry,  and  for  many  years  after  the  war,  she 
was  known  among  the  men,  who  do  not  understand  a 
woman's  heart,  as  the  "  War  widow  by  brevet.-"  Yet  that 
was  Henry's  "  deathless  fame  "  in  Sycamore  Ridge,  for  the 
town  has  long  since  forgotten  him,  and  even  his  name 
means  nothing  to  our  children,  who  see  it  on  the  bronze 
statue  set  up  by  the  rich  John  Barclay  to  commemorate  our 
soldier  dead. 

But  John  was  our  first  war  hero.  And  when  he  brought 
his  battle  scars  home  that  September  night  in  '61,  for  hours 
before  the  stage  drove  across  Sycamore  Creek  the  boy 


46  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

was  filled  with  a  nameless  dread  that  he  might  be 
spanked. 

They  carried  him  on  a  cot  to  his  mother's  house,  and 
put  him  in  the  great  carved  four-poster  bed,  and  in  the 
morning  Miss  Lucy  came  and  hovered  over  him,  and  they 
talked  of  Captain  Ward  to  her  heart's  content,  and  the 
boy  told  Miss  Lucy  the  gossip  of  the  hospital,  —  that  Cap 
tain  Ward  was  to  be  made  a  major,  —  and  she  kissed  him 
and  petted  him  until  he  was  glad  none  of  the  boys  was 
around  to  see  the  sickening  spectacle.  And  then  Miss 
Lucy  and  Mrs.  Barclay  told  the  child  of  their  plans,  —  that 
Miss  Lucy  was  going  to  war  as  a  nurse,  and  that  Mrs. 
Barclay  was  to  teach  the  Sycamore  Ridge  school  during 
the  winter.  And  in  a  few  weeks  John  was  out  of  the 
hero  business,  working  in  Culpeppers  store  after  school, 
and  getting  used  to  a  lirnp  that  stayed  with  him  all  his  life. 

The  next  spring  he  traded  a  carbine  that  he  brought 
home  from  the  army  for  an  Indian  pony,  and  then  he  began 
business  for  himself.  He  organized  the  cows  of  the  town 
into  a  town  herd  and  took  them  ever}'  morning  to  pasture 
on  the  prairie.  All  day  he  rode  in  the  open  air,  and  the 
town  boys  came  out  to  play  with  him,  and  they  explored 
the  cave  by  his  mother's  house,  and  with  their  sling-shots 
killed  quails  and  prairie  chickens  and  cooked  them,  and 
they  played  war  through  the  long  summer  days.  But 
John  did  not  grow  as  the  other  boys  grew  ;  he  remained 
undersized,  and  his  limp  put  him  at  a  disadvantage  ;  so  he 
had  few  fights,  but  he  learned  cunning,  and  got  his  way  by 
strategy  rather  than  by  force  —  but  he  always  had  his  way. 
He  was  strong  ;  the  memory  of  what  he  had  seen  and  what 
he  had  been  that  one  awful  day  in  the  battle  made  lines 
on  his  face  ;  sometimes  at  night  he  would  wake  screaming, 
when  he  dreamed  he  was  running  away  from  the  surgeon 
with  the  bloody  knife  in  his  teeth  and  that  the  man  was 
going  to  throw  an  arm  at  him.  And  when  he  wished  to 
bring  Ellen  Culpepper  to  time  he  would  begin  in  a  low 
terrorful  voice,  "  And  I  saw  —  the  man  —  take  —  a  — 
g-r-e-a-t  1-o-n-g  knife  d-r-i-p-p-i-n-g  with  r-e-d-b-1-o-o-d 
out  of  his  t-e-e-t-h  and  go  slish,  k-slish,"  but  he  never  got 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  47 

farther  than  this,  for  the  girl  would  begin  shaking,  and  if 
they  were  alone,  would  run  to  him  and  grab  him  and  put 
her  hand  to  his  mouth  to  make  him  stop. 

And  so  his  twelfth  year  passed  under  the  open  sky  in 
the  sunshine  in  summer  and  in  winter  working  after 
school  in  town  where  men  were  wanting,  and  where  a  boy 
could  always  find  work.  He  grew  brown  and  lean,  and 
as  his  voice  grew  squeaky  and  he  sang  alto  in  the  school, 
he  became  more  and  more  crafty  and  masterful.  The  fact 
that  his  mother  was  the  teacher,  did  not  give  him  more 
rights  in  school  than  other  boys,  for  she  was  a  sensible 
woman,  but  it  gave  him  a  prestige  on  the  playground  that 
he  was  not  slow  to  take.  He  was  a  born  trader  ;  and  he  I 
kept  what  he  got  arid  got  more.  His  weakness  was! 
music.  He  kept  two  cows  in  his  herd  in  the  summer 
time  in  return  for  the  use  of  the  melodeon  at  the  Thayer 
House,  and  moved  it  to  his  own  home  and  put  it  in  the 
crowded  little  room,  and  practised  on  it  at  night  when 
the  other  boys  were  loafing  at  the  town  pump.  For  a 
consideration  in  marbles  he  taught  Buck  Culpepper  the 
chords  in  "  G  "  on  the  guitar,  and  for  further  consideration 
taught  him  the  chords  in  "  D  "  and  "  C,"  and  with  the  aid 
of  Jimmy  Fernald,  aged  nine,  and  Molly  Culpepper,  aged 
eleven,  one  with  a  triangle  and  the  other  with  a  pumpkin 
reed  pipe,  John  organized  his  Band,  which  he  led  with  his 
mouth-organ,  and  exhibited  in  Culpepper 's  barn,  appro 
priating  to  himself  as  the  director  the  pins  charged  at 
the  door.  Forty  years  afterward,  when  Molly  called  his 
attention  to  his  failure  to  divide  with  the  children,  John! 
Barclay  smiled  as  he  lifted  his  lame  foot  to  a  fat  leather/ 
chair  in  front  of  him  and  said,  "That  was  what  we  call) 
the  promoter's  profit."  And  then  the  talk  ran  to  Ellen, 
and  John  opened  his  great  desk  and  from  a  box  without 
a  mark  on  it  he  brought  out  a  tintype  picture  of  Ellen  at 
fourteen,  a  pink-cheeked  child  in  short  sleeves,  with  the 
fringe  of  her  pantalets  showing  above  her  red  striped 
stockings  and  beneath  her  bulging  skirts,  and  with  a 
stringy,  stiff  feather  rising  from  the  front  of  her  narrow- 
rimmed  hat. 


48  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

During  the  time  when  he  was  going  to  school  by  day  and 
working  evenings  and  caring  for  the  town  herd  through 
the  summer,  the  war  was  dragging  wearily  on.  Sometimes 
a  soldier  came  home  on  a  furlough  and  there  was  news 
of  the  Sycamore  Ridge  men,  but  oftener  it  was  a  season 
of  waiting  and  working.  The  women  and  children  cared 
for  the  farms  and  the  stores  as  best  they  could  and  lived, 
heaven  only  knows  how,  and  opened  every  newspaper  with 
horror  and  dread,  and  glanced  down  the  long  list  of  names 
of  the  dead,  the  missing  and  the  wounded,  fearful  of  what 
they  might  see.  Mrs.  Barclay  heard  from  Miss  Lucy  and 
through  her  kept  track  of  Philemon  Ward,  who  was  trans 
ferred  to  another  regiment  after  he  was  made  major. 
And  when  he  was  made  a  colonel  at  Shiloh,  there  were 
tear  blots  on  Miss  Lucy's  letter  that  told  of  it,  and  after 
Appomattox  he  was  brevetted  a  general.  As  for  Captain 
Culpepper,  he  came  home  a  colonel,  and  Jake  Dolan  came 
home  a  first  lieutenant.  But  Watts  McHurdie  came  home 
with  a  letter  from  Lincoln  about  his  song,  and  he  was  the 
greatest  man  of  all  of  them. 

It  is  odd  that  Sycamore  Ridge  grew  during  the  war. 
Where  the  people  came  from,  no  one  could  say  —  yet  they 
came,  and  young  Barclay  remembered  even  during  the 
war  of  playing  in  the  foundations  and  running  over  the 
rafters  of  new  houses.  But  when  the  war  closed,  the  great 
caravan  that  had  lagged  while  the  war  was  raging,  began 
to  trail  itself  steadily  in  front  of  Mrs.  Barclay's  door, 
through  the  streets  of  Sycamore  Ridge  and  out  over  the 
western  hills.  Soldiers  with  their  families  passed,  going 
to  the  free  homesteads,  and  the  line  of  movers'  wagons 
began  with  daybreak  and  rumbled  by  far  into  the  night. 
But  hundreds  of  wagons  stopped  in  Sycamore  Ridge,  and 
the  stage  came  crowded  every  night.  Brick  buildings, 
the  town's  mortal  pride,  began  showing  their  fronts  on 
Main  Street,  and  other  streets  in  the  town  began  to  assert 
themselves.  Mrs.  Barclay's  school  grew  from  a  score  of 
children  in  1864  to  three  rooms  full  in  '65,  and  in  '66  the 
whole  town  turned  out  to  welcome  General  and  Mrs. 
Ward,  she  that  was  Miss  Lucy  Barnes,  and  there  was  a  re- 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  49 

union  of  "  C  "  Company  that  night,  and  a  camp-fire  in  Cul- 
pepper  Hall,  and  the  next  day  Lige  Bemis  was  painting  a 
sign  which  read  "  Philemon  R.  Ward,  Attorney-at-Law, 
Pension  Matters  Promptly  Attended  To."  And  the  first 
little  Ward  was  born  at  the  Thayer  House  and  named  Eli 
Thayer  Ward. 

The  spring  that  found  John  Barclay  sixteen  years  old 
found  him  a  browned,  gray-eyed,  lumpy  sort  of  a  boy,  big 
at  the  wrong  places,  and  stunted  at  the  wrong  places,  with 
a  curious,  uneven  sort  of  an  education.  He  knew  all 
about  Walden  Pond;  and  he  knew  his  Emerson  —  and  was 
mad  with  passion  to  see  the  man;  he  had  travelled  over  the 
world  with  Scott;  had  crossed  the  bridge  with  Caesar  in 
his  father's  books;  had  roamed  the  prairie  and  the  woods 
with  Cooper's  Indians;  had  gone  into  the  hearts  of  men 
with  Thackeray  and  Dickens,  holding  his  mother's  hand 
and  listening  to  her  voice ;  but  he  knew  algebra  only  as  a 
name,  and  rhetoric  was  a  dictionary  word  with  him.  Of 
earthly  possessions  he  had  two  horses,  a  bill  of  sale  for  his 
melodeon,  a  saddle,  a  wagon,  a  set  of  harness  ;  four  mouth- 
organs,  one  each  in  "  A,"  "  D,"  "  E,"  and  "  C,"  all  care 
fully  rolled  in  Canton  flannel  on  a  shelf  above  his  bed;  one 
concertina, — a  sort  of  German  accordion, — five  pigs,  a  cow, 
and  a  bull  calf.  Moreover,  there  were  two  rooms  in  the 
Barclay  home ;  and  the  great  rock  was  gone  from  the  door 
of  the  cave,  and  a  wooden  door  was  in  its  place  and  the 
Barclays  were  using  it  for  a  spring-house.  .The  boy  had  a/ 
milk  route  and  sold  butter  to  the  hotel.  But  the  chiefestj 
treasure  of  the  household  was  John's  new  music  book. 
And  while  he  played  on  his  melodeon,  Ellen  Culpepper's 
eyes  smiled  from  the  pages  and  her  voice  moved  in  the 
melodies,  and  his  heart  began  to  feel  the  first  vague  vibra 
tion  with  the  great  harmony  of  life.  And  so  the  pimples 
on  his  chia  reddened,  and  the  squeak  in  his  voice  began 
to  squawk,  and  his  big  milky  eyes  began  to  see  visions 
wherein  a  man  was  walking  through  this  vain  world.  As 
for  Ellen  Culpepper,  her  shoe  tops  were  tiptoeing  to  her 
skirts,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  dreams  of  the  warrior  bold, 
"  with  spurs  of  gold,"  who  "  sang  merrily  his  lay."  And 


50  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

rising  from  these  dreams,  she  always  stepped  on  her  feet. 
But  that  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  men  and  women  have 
been  born  and  loved  and  married  and  brought  children 
into  the  world  since  then.  For  it  was  a  long  time 
ago. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  changes  of  time  are  hard  to  realize.  One  knows, 
of  course,  that  the  old  man  once  was  young.  One  under 
stands  that  the  tree  once  was  a  sapling,  and  conversely  we 
know  that  the  child  will  be  a  man  and  the  gaunt  sapling 
stuck  in  the  earth  in  time  will  become  a  great  spreading 
tree.  But  the  miracle  of  growth  passes  not  merely  our 
understanding,  but  our  imagination. 

So  though  men  tell  us,  and  grow  black  in  the  face  with 
the  vehemence  of  telling,  that  the  Sycamore  Ridge  of 
the  sixties  —  a  gray  smudge  of  unpainted  wooden  houses 
bordering  the  Santa  Fe  trail,  with  the  street  merging  into 
the  sunflowers  a  block  either  way  from  the  pump,  —  is 
the  town  that  now  lies  hidden  in  the  elm  forest,  with  its 
thirty  miles  of  paving  and  its  scores  of  acres  of  wide  velvet 
lawns,  with  its  parks  wherein  fountains  play,  guarded 
by  cannon  discarded  by  the  pride  of  modern  war,  with  the 
court-house  on  the  brink  of  the  hill  that  once  was  far 
west  of  the  town  and  with  twenty-two  thousand  people 
whizzing  around  in  trolleys,  rattling  about  in  buggies  or 
scooting  down  the  shady  avenues  in  motor-cars  —  what 
ever  the  records  may  show,  the  real  truth  we  know  ;  the 
towns  are  not  the  same  ;  the  miracle  of  growth  cannot  fool 
us.  And  yet  here  is  the  miracle  in  the  making.  Always 
in  John  Barclay's  eyes  when  he  closed  them  to  think  of 
the  first  years  that  followed  the  war  between  the  states, 
rose  visions  of  yellow  pine  and  red  bricks  and  thelitter  and 
debris  of  building  ;  always  in  his  ears  as  he  remembered 
those  days  were  the  confused  noises  of  wagons  whining 
and  groaning  under  their  heavy  loads,  of  gnawing  saws 
and  rattling  hammers,  of  the  clink  of  trowels  on  stones, 
of  the  swish  of  mortar  in  boxes,  and  of  the  murmur  of  the 
tide  of  hurrying  feet  over  boar  d  sidewalks,  ebbing  and  flowing 
night  and  morning.  In  those  days  new  boys  came  to  town 

61 


52  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

BO  rapidly  that  sometimes  John  met  a  boy  in  swimming 
whom  he  did  not  know,  and,  even  in  1866,  when  Ellen  and 
Molly  Culpepper  were  giving  a  birthday  party  for  Ellen, 
she  declared  that  she  "  simply  couldn't  have  all  the  new 
people  there." 

And  so  in  the  sixties  the  boy  and  the  town  went  through 
their  raw,  gawky,  ugly  adolescence  together.  As  streets 
formed  in  the  town,  ideas  took  shape  in  the  boy's  mind. 
As  Lincoln  Avenue  was  marked  out  on  the  hill,  where 
afterward  the  quality  of  the  town  came  to  live,  so  in  the 
boy's  heart  books  that  told  him  of  the  world  outlined 
vague  visions.  Boy  fashion  he  wrote  to  Bob  Hendricks 
once  or  twice  a  month  or  a  season,  as  the  spirit  moved  him, 
and  measured  everything  with  the  eyes  of  his  absent  friend. 
For  he  came  to  idealize  Bob,  who  was  out  in  the  wonder 
ful  world,  and  their  letters  in  those  days  were  curious 
compositions  —  full  of  adventures  by  field  and  wood,  and 
awkward  references  to  proper  books  to  read,  and  cures  for 
cramps  and  bashfully  expressed  aspirations  of  the  soul. 
Bob's  father  had  become  a  general,  and  when  the  war 
closed,  he  was  sent  west  to  fight  the  Indians,  and  he  took 
Lieutenant  Jacob  Dolan  with  him,  and  Bob  sent  to  John 
news  of  the  Indian  fighting  that  glorified  Bob  further. 

And  when  a  letter  came  to  the  Ridge  from  Dolan  an 
nouncing  that  he  and  the  Hendricks  family  were  coming 
back  to  the  Ridge  to  live,  —  the  general  to  look  after  his 
neglected  property,  and  Dolan  to  start  a  livery-stable,  — 
John  heard  the  news  with  a  throb  of  great  joy.  When  a 
letter  from  Bob  confirmed  the  news,  John  began  to  count 
the  days.  For  the  love  of  boys  is  the  most  unselfish  thing 
in  a  selfish  world.  They  met  awkwardly  and  sheepishly 
at  the  stage,  and  greeted  each  other  with  grunts,  and  be 
came  inseparable.  Bob  came  back  tall,  lanky,  grinny,  and 
rather  dumb,  and  he  found  John  undersized,  wiry,  master 
ful,  and  rather  mooney,  but  strong  and  purposeful,  for  a 
boy.  But  each  accepted  the  other  as  perfect  in  every 
detail. 

Nothing  Bob  did  changed  John's  attitude,  and  nothing 
John  did  ma'de  Bob  waver  in  his  faith  in  John.  Did  the 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  53 

boys  come  to  John  with  a  sickening  story  that  Bob's  sister 
made  him  bring  a  towel  to  the  swimming  hole,  John 
glared  at  them  a  moment  and  then  waved  them  aside  with, 
"  Well,  you  big  brutes,  —  didn't  you  know  what  it  was 
for?"  When  they  reported  to  John  that  Bob's  father 
was  making  him  tip  his  hat  to  the  girls,  they  got,  instead 
of  the  outbreak  of  scorn  they  expected,  "  Well  —  did  the 
girls  tip  back  ? "  And  when  Bob's  sister  said  that  the 
Barclay  boy  —  barefooted,  curly-headed,  dusty,  and  sun 
burned —  looked  like  something  the  old  cat  had  dragged 
into  the  house,  the  boy  was  impudent  to  his  sister  and 
took  a  whipping  from  his  father. 

That  fall  the  children  of  Sycamore  Ridge  assembled  for 
the  first  time  in  their  new  seven-room  stone  schoolhouse, 
and  the  two  boys  were  in  the  high  school.  The  board 
hired  General  Philemon  Ward  to  teach  the  twenty  high 
school  pupils,  and  it  was  then  he  first  began  to  wear  the 
white  neckties  which  he  never  afterwards  abandoned. 
Ward's  first  clash  with  John  Barclay  occurred  when  Ward 
organized  a  military  company.  John's  limp  kept  him  out 
of  it,  so  he  broke  up  the  company  and  organized  a  literary 
society,  of  which  he  was  president  and  Ellen  Culpepper 
secretary,  and  a  constitution  was  adopted  exempting  the  i 
president  and  secretary  from  work  in  the  society.  It  was 
natural  enough  that  Bob  Hendricks  should  be  made  treas 
urer,  and  that  these  three  officers  should  be  the  programme 
committee,  and  then  a  long  line  of  vice-presidents  and  as 
sistant  secretaries  and  treasurers  and  monitors  was  elected 
by  the  society. 

So  John  became  the  social  leader  of  the  group  of  boys 
and  girls  who  were  just  coming  out  of  kissing  games  into 
dances  at  one  another's  homes  in  the  town.  John  decided 
who  should  be  in  the  "  crowd  "  and  who  might  be  invited 
only  when  a  mixed  crowd  was  expected.  Fathers  desiring 
trade,  and  mothers  faithful  to  church  ties,  protested  ;  but 
John  Barclay  had  his  way.  It  was  his  crowd.  They 
called  themselves  the  "  Spring  Chickens,"  and  as  John  had 
money  saved  to  spend  as  he  pleased,  he  dictated  many 
things  ;  but  he  did  not  spend  his  money,  he  lent  it,  and  his 


64  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

barn  was  stored  with  skates  and  sleds  and  broken  guns 
and  scrap-iron  held  as  security,  while  his  pockets  bulged 
with  knives  taken  as  interest. 

As  the  winter  waned  and  the  Spring  Chickens  waxed 
fat  in  social  honours,  Bob  Hendricks  glanced  up  from  his 
algebra  one  day,  and  discovered  that  little  Molly  Culpep- 
per  had  two  red  lips  and  two  pig-tail  braids  of  hair  that 
reached  below  her  waist.  Then  and  there  he  shot  her 
deftly  with  a  paper  wad,  chewed  and  fired  through  a  cane 
pipe-stem,  and  waited  till  she  wiped  it  off  her  cheek  with 
her  apron  and  made  a  face  at  him,  before  he  plunged  into 
the  mysteries  of  #2+2  xy-\-y2.  And  thus  another  old 
story  began,  as  new  and  as  fresh  as  when  Adam  and  Eve 
walked  together  in  the  garden. 

John  Barclay  was  so  busy  during  his  last  year  in  the 
Sycamore  Ridge  school  that  he  often  fancied  afterwards 
that  the  houses  on  Lincoln  Avenue  in  Culpepper  addition 
must  have  come  with  the  grass  in  the  spring,  for  he  has  no 
memory  of  their  building.  Neither  does  he  remember 
when  General  Madison  Hendricks  built  the  brick  building 
on  the  corner  of  Main  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue,  in  which 
he  opened  the  Exchange  National  Bank  of  Sycamore 
Ridge.  Yet  John  remembered  that  his  team  and  wagon 
were  going  all  winter,  hauling  stone  for  the  foundation  of 
the  Hendricks  home  on  the  hill  —  a  great  brick  structure, 
with  square  towers  and  square  "ells  "  rambling  off  on  the 
prairie,  and  square  turrets  with  ornate  cornice  pikes  prick 
ing  the  sky.  For  years  the  two  big  houses  standing  side 
by  side  —  the  Hendricks  house  and  the  Culpepper  house, 
with  its  tall  white  pillars  reaching  to  the  roof,  its  double 
door  and  its  two  white  wings  spreading  over  the  wide 
green  lawn  —  were  the  show  places  of  Sycamore  Ridge, 
and  the  town  was  always  divided  in  its  admiration  for 
them.  John's  heart  was  sadly  torn  between  them.  Yet 
he  was  secretly  glad  to  learn  from  his  mother  that  his 
Uncle  Union's  house  in  Haverhill  had  tall  columns,  green 
blinds  on  the  white  woodwork,  and  a  wide  hall  running 
down  the  centre.  For  it  made  him  feel  more  at  home  at  the 
Culpeppers'.  But  when  the  Hendricks'  piano  came,  after 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  55 

they  moved  into  the  big  house,  the  boy's  heart  was  opened 
afresh  ;  and  he  spent  hours  with  Bob  Hendricks  at  the 
piano,  when  he  knew  he  would  be  welcome  at  the  Culpep- 
pers'.  He  leased  his  town  herd  in  the  summer  to  Jimmie 
Fernald  —  giving  him  the  right  to  take  the  cows  to  the 
commons  around  town  upon  the  payment  of  five  dollars  a 
month  to  John  for  keeping  out  of  the  business,  and  pass 
ing  Jimmie  good- will.  In  the  meantime,  by  day,  John 
worked  his  team,  and  hired  two  others  and  took  contracts 
for  digging  cellars.  At  nights  he  went  to  the  country 
with  his  concertina  and  played  for  dances,  making  two 
dollars  a  night,  and  General  Hendricks  for  years  pointed 
with  pride  to  the  fact  that  when  the  Exchange  National 
Bank  of  Sycamore  Ridge  opened  for  business  the  first 
morning,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  line  of  depositors 
was  John  Barclay,  with  his  concertina  under  his  arm,  just 
as  he  had  returned  from  a  country  dance  at  daylight, 
waiting  to  be  first  in  line,  with  $178.53  in  his  pocket  to  < 
deposit.  That  deposit  slip,  framed,  still  hangs  over  the 
desk  in  the  office  of  the  president  of  the  bank,  and  when 
John  Barclay  became  famous,  it  was  always  a  part  of  the 
"Art  Loan  Exhibit,"  held  by  the  women  in  Barclay 
Memorial  Hall. 

That  summer  of  '67  John  capitulated  to  life,  held  his 
hands  up  for  the  shackles  and  put  on  shoes  in  summer  for 
the  first  time.  Also,  he  only  went  swimming  twice  — 
both  times  at  night,  and  he  bought  his  first  box  of  paper 
collars  and  his  mother  tried  to  make  his  neckties  like 
those  in  Dorman's  store  ;  but  some  way  she  did  not  get 
the  hang  of  it,  and  John  bought  a  Sunday  necktie  of 
great  pride,  and  he  and  his  mother  agreed  that  it  was  off 
the  tail  of  Joseph's  coat  of  many  colours.  But  he  wore  it 
only  on  state  occasions.  At  work,  he  made  an  odd  figure 
limping  over  the  dirt  heaps  and  into  the  excavations  boss 
ing  men  old  enough  to  be  his  father.  He  wore  a  seriousi 
face  in  those  days,  —  for  a  boy,  —  and  his  mouth  was  al-\ 
most  hard,  but  something  burned  in  his  eyes  that  was) 
more  than  ambition,  though  that  lighted  his  face  like  a[ 
flame,  and  he  was  always  whistling  or  singing.  At  night' 


56  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

he  and  Bob  Hendricks  wandered  away  together,  and  some* 
times  they  walked  out  under  the  stars  and  talked  as  boys 
will  talk  of  their  little  world  and  the  big  world  about 
them,  or  sometimes  they  sat  reading  at  one  or  the  other's 
home,  and  one  would  walk  home  with  the  other,  and  the 
other  walk  a  piece  of  the  way  back.  They  read  poetry 
and  mooned  ;  "  Lalla  Rookh  "  appealed  to  John  because 
of  its  music  and  melody,  and  both  boys  devoured  Byron, 
and  gobbled  over  the  "  Corsair  "  and  the  "  Giaour  "  and 
"  Childe  Harold  "  with  the  book  above  the  table,  and  came 
back  from  the  barn  on  Sundays  licking  their  chops  after 
surreptitiously  nibbling  "Don  Juan."  But  they  had 
Captain  Mayne  Reid  and  Kingsley  as  an  antidote,  and 
they  soon  got  enough  of  Byron. 

The  two  boys  persuaded  each  other  to  go  away  to 
school,  and  John  chose  the  state  university  because  it 
was  cheap  and  because  he  heard  he  could  get  work  in 
Lawrence  to  carry  him  through.  He  did  not  recollect 
that  his  mother  had  any  influence  in  the  matter ;  but  in 
those  days  she  always  seemed  to  be  sitting  by  the  lamp  in 
their  little  home,  sewing,  with  his  shirts  and  underwear 
strewn  about  her.  She  had  a  permanent  place  in  the 
town  schools,  and  the  Barclay  home  had  grown  to  a 
kitchen  and  two  bedrooms  as  well  as  the  big  room  with  its 
fireplace.  His  mother's  hair  was  growing  gray  at  the 
temples,  but  her  clear,  firm,  unwrinkled  skin  and  strong 
broad  jaw  kept  youth  in  her  countenance,  and  as  Martin 
Culpepper  wrote  in  the  Biography,  where  he  names  the 
pioneers  of  Sycamore  Ridge  whose  lives  influenced  Watts 
McHurdie's,  "  the  three  graces,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity, 
were  mirrored  in  her  smile." 

One  night  when  the  boy  came  in  tired  after  his  night's 
ramble,  he  left  his  mother,  as  he  often  did  those  last 
nights  before  he  went  away  to  school,  bending  over  her 
work,  humming  a  low  happy-noted  song,  even  though  the 
hour  was  late.  He  lay  in  his  bed  beside  the  open  window 
looking  out  into  the  night,  dreaming  with  open  eyes  about 
life.  Perhaps  he  actually  dreamed  a  moment,  for  he  did 
not  hear  her  come  into  the  room  ;  but  he  felt  her  bend 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  57 

over  him,  and  a  tear  dropped  on  his  face  from  hers.  He 
turned  toward  her,  and  she  put  her  arms  about  his  neck. 
Then  she  sobbed  :  "  Oh,  good-by,  my  little  boy  —  good- 
by.  I  am  coming  here  to  bid  you  good-by,  every  night 
now."  He  kissed  her  hand,  and  she  was  silent  a  moment, 
and  then  she  spoke  :  "  I  know  this  is  the  last  of  it  all, 
John.  You  will  never  come  back  to  me  again  —  not  you, 
but  a  man.  And  you  will  seem  strange,  and  I  will  seem 
strange."  She  paused  a  moment  to  let  the  cramp  in  her 
throat  leave,  then  she  went  on  :  "I  was  going  to  say  so 
many  things  —  when  this  time  came,  but  they're  all  gone. 
But  oh,  my  boy,  my  little  tender-hearted  boy  —  be  a  good 
man- — just  be  a  good  man,  John."  And  then  she  sobbed 
for  an  unrestrained  minute  :  "  O  God,  when  you  take  my 
boy  away,  keep  him  clean,  and  brave,  and  kind,  and  —  O 
God,  make  him  —  make  him  a  good  man."  And  with  a 
pat  and  a  kiss  she  rose  and  said  as  she  left  him,  "Now 
good  night,  Johnnie,  go  to  sleep." 

In  the  Sycamore  Ridge  Banner  for  September  12, 1867, 
appeared  some  verses  by  Watts  McHurdie,  beginning :  — 

"  Hail  and  farewell  to  thee,  friend  of  my  youth, 
Pilgrim  who  seekest  the  Fountain  of  Truth, 
Hail  and  farewell  to  thy  innocent  pranks, 
No  more  can  I  send  thee  for  left-handed  cranks. 
Farewell,  and  a  tear  laves  the  ink  on  my  pen, 
For  ne'er  shall  I  'noint  thee  with  strap-oil  again." 

It  was  a  noble  effort,  and  in  his  notes  to  the  McHurdie 
poems  following  the  Biography  published  over  thirty  years 
after  those  lines  were  written,  Colonel  Culpepper  writes  : 
"  This  touching,  though  somewhat  humorous,  poem  was 
written  on  the  occasion  of  the  departure  for  college  of  one 
who  since  has  become  listed  with  the  world's  great  captains 
of  finance  —  none  other  than  Honourable  John  Barclay, 
whose  fame  is  too  substantial  to  need  encomium  in  these 
humble  pages.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  between  these  two 
men,  our  hero,  the  poet,  and  the  great  man  of  affairs,  there 
has  always  remained  the  closest  friendship,  and  each  carries 
in  his  bosom,  wrapped  in  the  myrrh  of  fond  memory,  the 


58  A  CERTAIN  RICH    MAN 

deathless  blossom  of  friendship,  that  sweetest  flower  in  the 
conservatory  of  the  soul." 

The  day  before  John  left  for  Lawrence  he  met  Lieuten 
ant  Jacob  Dolan. 

"  So  ye're  going  to  college  —  ay,  Johnnie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Dolan,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  Well,  they're  all  givin'  you  somethin',  Johnnie  :  Watts 
here  has  given  a  bit  of  a  posey  in  verse ;  and  my  friend, 
General  Hendricks,  I'm  told,  has  given  you  a  hundred- 
dollar  note ;  and  General  Philemon  Ward  has  given  you 
Wendell  Phillips'  orations ;  and  your  sweetheart  —  God 
bless  her,  whoever  she  is  —  will  be  givin'  ye  the  makins' 
of  a  broken  heart ;  and  your  mother'll  be  givin'  you  her 
blessin'  —  and  the  saints'  prayers  go  with  'em  ;  and  me. 
havin'  known  your  father  before  you  and  the  mother  that 
bore  you,  and  seein'  her  rub  the  roses  off  her  cheeks  tryin' 
to  keep  your  ornery  little  soul  in  your  worthless  little 
body,  I'll  give  you  this  sentiment  to  put  in  your  pipe  and 
smoke  :  John  Barclay,  man — if  they  ever  he's  a  law  agin 
damn  fools,  the  first  raid  the  officers  should  make  is  on  the 
colleges.  And  now  may  ye  be  struck  blind  before  ye  get 
your  education  and  dumb  if  it  makes  a  fool  of  ye."  And 
so  slapping  the  boy  on  the  back,  Jake  Dolan  went  down 
the  street  winding  in  and  out  among  the  brick  piles  and 
lumber  and  mortar  boxes,  whistling  "  Tread  on  the  Tail  of 
me  Coat." 

For  life  was  all  so  fine  and  gay  with  Lieutenant  Dolan 
in  those  days.  And  he  whistled  and  sang,  and  thought 
what  he  pleased,  and  said  what  he  pleased,  and  did  what  he 
pleased,  and  if  the  world  didn't  like  it,  the  world  could 
picket  its  horses  and  get  out  of  Jacob  Dolan's  livery  barn. 
For  Mr.  Dolan  was  thinking  that  from  the  livery-stable  to 
the  office  of  sheriff  is  but  a  step  in  this  land  of  the  free 
and  home  of  the  brave ;  so  he  carried  his  head  back  and  his 
chest  out  and  invited  insult  in  the  fond  hope  of  provoking 
assault.  He  was  the  flower  of  the  times,  —  effulgent,  rather 
gaudy,  and  mostly  red  I 


CHAPTER  V 

GOOD  times  came  to  Sycamore  Ridge  in  the  autumn. 
The  dam  across  the  creek  was  furnishing  power  for  a  flour- 
mill  and  a  furniture  factory.  The  endless  worm  of  wagons 
that  was  wriggling  through  the  town  carrying  movers  to 
the  West,  was  sloughing  many  of  its  scales  in  Sycamore 
Ridge.  Martin"  "Culpepper  had  been  East  with  circulars 
describing  the  town  and  adjacent  country.  He  had 
brought  back  three  stage  loads  of  settlers,  and  was  selling 
lots  in  Culpepper's  addition  faster  than  they  could  be  sur 
veyed.  The  Frye  blacksmith  shop  had  become  a  wagon 
shop,  and  then  a  hardware  store  was  added ;  the  flag  flut 
tered  from  the  high  flagstaff  over  the  Exchange  National 
Bank  building,  and  all  day  long  farmers  were  going  from 
the  mill  to  the  bank.  General  Philemon  Ward  gave  up 
school-teaching  and  went  back  to  his  law  office ;  but  he 
was  apt  to  take  sides  with  President  Andrew  Johnson  too 
vigorously  for  his  own  good,  and  clients  often  avoided  his 
office  in  fear  of  an  argument.  Still  he  was  cheerful,  and 
being  only  in  his  early  thirties,  looked  at  the  green  hills 
afar  from  his  pasture  and  was  happy.  The  Thayer  House 
was  filled  with  guests,  and  the  Fernalds  had  money  in  the 
bank  ;  Mary  Murphy  and  Gabriel  Carnine  were  living  hap 
pily  ever  after,  and  Nellie  Logan  was  clerking  in  Dorman's 
Dry  Goods  store  and  making  Watts  McHurdie  understand 
that  she  had  her  choice  between  a  preacher  and  a  drummer. 
Other  girls  in  the  dining  room  of  the  Thayer  House  were 
rattling  the  dinner  dishes  and  singing  "  Sweet  Belle  Ma- 
hone"  and  "Do  you  love  me,  Molly  Darling?"  to  ensnare 
the  travelling  public  that  might  be  tilted  back  against  the 
veranda  in  a  mood  for  romance.  And  as  John  and  Bob 
that  hot  September  afternoon  made  the  round  of  the  stores 
and  offices  bidding  the  town  good-by,  it  seemed  to  them 
that  perhaps  they  were  seizing  the  shadow  and  letting  the 

69 


60  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

substance  fade.  For  it  was  such  a  good-natured  busy  little 
place  that  their  hearts  were  heavy  at  leaving  it. 

But  that  evening  John  in  his  gorgeous  necktie,  his 
clean  paper  collar,  his  new  stiff  hat,  his  first  store  clothes, 
wearing  proudly  his  father's  silver  watch  and  chain,  set 
out  to  say  good-by  to  Ellen  Culpepper,  and  his  mother, 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  their  home,  sighed  at  his  limp 
and  laughed  at  his  strut  —  the  first  laugh  she  had  enjoyed 
in  a  dozen  days. 

John  and  Bob  together  went  up  the  stone  walk  leading 
across  a  yard,  still  littered  with  the  debris  of  building,  to 
the  unboxed  steps  that  climbed  to  the  veranda  of  the  Cul 
pepper  house.  There  they  met  Colonel  Culpepper  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  walking  up  and  down  the  veranda  admiring 
the  tall  white  pillars.  When  he  had  greeted  the  boys,  he 
put  his  thumbs  in  his  vest  holes  and  continued  his  parade 
in  some  pomp.  The  boys  were  used  to  this  attitude  of 
the  colonel's  toward  themselves  and  the  pillars.  It  al 
ways  followed  a  hearty  meal.  So  they  sat  respectfully 
while  he  marched  before  them,  pointing  occasionally,  when 
he  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  a  hand  from  his  vest, 
to  some  feature  of  the  landscape  in  the  sunset  light  that 
needed  emphatic  attention. 

"  Yes,  sir,  young  gentlemen,"  expanded  the  colonel, 
"you  are  doing  the  right  and  proper  thing  —  the  right 
and  proper  thing.  Of  all  the  avocations  of  youth,  I  con 
ceive  the  pursuit  of  the  sombre  goddess  of  learning  to  be  the 
most  profitable  —  entirely  the  most  profitable.  I  myself, 
though  a  young  man,  —  being  still  on  the  right  side  of  forty, 
—have  reaped  the  richest  harvest  from  my  labours  in 
the  classic  shades.  Twenty  years  ago,  young  gentlemen, 
I,  like  you,  left  my  ancestral  estates  to  sip  at  the  Pierian 
spring.  In  point  of  fact,  I  attended  the  institution  founded 
by  Thomas  Jefferson,  the  father  of  the  American  democ 
racy —  yes,  sir."  He  put  his  cigar  back  in  his  mouth  and 
added,  "  Yes,  sir,  you  are  certainly  taking  a  wise  and,  I  may 
say,  highly  necessary  step  —  " 

Mrs.  Culpepper,  small,  sprightly,  blue-eyed,  and  calm, 
entered  the  verand-a,  and  cut  the  colonel  off  with  :  "  Good 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  61 

evening,  boys.  So  yon  are  going  away.  Well  —  we'll 
miss  you.  The  girls  will  be  right  out." 

But  the  colonel  would  not  be  quenched ;  his  fires  were 
burning  deeply.  "  As  I  was  saying,  Mrs.  Culpepper,"  he 
went  on,  "  the  classic  training  obtained  from  a  liberal  edu 
cation  such  as  it  was  my  fortune  — " 

Mrs.  Culpepper  smiled  blandly  as  she  put  in,  "  Now,  pa, 
these  boys  don't  care  for  that." 

"  But,  my  dear,  let  me  finish.  As  I  started  to  say  :  the 
flowers  of  poetry,  Keats  and  his  large  white  plumes,  the 
contemplation  of  nature's  secrets,  the  reflective  study  of  —  " 

"  Yes,  —  here's  your  coat  now,  pa,"  said  the  wife, 
returning  from  a  dive  into  the  hall.  "  John,  how's  your 
ma  going  to  get  on  without  you  ?  And,  pa,  be  sure  don't 
forget  the  eggs  for  breakfast.  I  declare  since  we've  moved 
up  here  so  far  from  the  stores,  we  nearly  starve." 

The  colonel  waited  a  second  while  a  glare  melted  into  a 
smile,  and  then  backed  meekly  into  the  arms  stretched  high 
to  hold  his  alpaca  coat.  As  he  turned  toward  the  group,  he 
was  beaming.  "If  it  were  not,"  exclaimed  the  colonel, 
addressing  the  young  men  with  a  quizzical  smile,  "that 
there  is  a  lady  present  —  a  very  important  lady  in  point  of 
fact,  —  I  might  be  tempted  to  say,  '  I  will  certainly  be 
damned  !"  And  with  that  the  colonel  lifted  Mrs.  Cul 
pepper  off  her  feet  and  kissed  her,  then  lumbered  down  the 
steps  and  strode  away.  He  paused  at  the  gate  to  gaze  at 
the  valley  and  turned  to  look  back  at  the  great  unfinished 
house,  then  swung  into  the  street  and  soon  his  hat  disap 
peared  under  the  hill. 

As  he  went  Mrs.  Culpepper  said,  "  Let  them  say  what 
they  will  about  Mart  Culpepper,  I  always  tell  the  girls  if 
they  get  as  good  a  man  as  their  pa,  they  will  be  doing 
mighty  well." 

Then  the  girls  appeared  bulging  in  hoops,  and  ruffles, 
with  elbow  sleeves,  with  a  hint  of  their  shoulders  showing 
and  with  pink  ribbons  in  their  hair.  Clearly  it  was  a  state 
occasion.  The  mother  beamed  at  them  a  moment,  and 
walked  around  Molly,  saying,  "I  told  you  that  was  all 
right,"  and  tied  Ellen's  hair  ribbon  over,  while  the  young 


62  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

people  were  chattering,  and  before  the  boys  knew  it,  she 
had  faded  into  the  dusk  of  the  hall,  and  the  clattering  of 
dishes  came  to  them  from  the  rear  of  the  house.  John 
fancied  he  felt  the  heavy  step  of  Buchanan  Culpepper,  and 
then  he  heard  :  "  Don't  you  talk  to  me,  Buck  Culpepper, 
about  woman's  work,  You'll  do  what  I  tell  you,  and  if  I 
say  wipe  dishes  —  "  the  voice  was  drowned  by  the  rattle 
of  a  passing  wagon.  And  soon  the  young  people  on  the  front 
porch  were  so  busy  with  their  affairs  that  the  house  behind 
them  and  its  affairs  dropped  to  another  world.  They  say, 
who  seem  to  know,  that  when  any  group  of  boys  and  girls 
meet  under  twenty -five  serious  years,  the  recording  angel 
puts  down  his  pen  with  a  sigh  and  takes  a  needed  nap.  But 
when  the  group  pairs  off,  then  Mr.  Recorder  pricks  up  his 
ears  and  works  with  both  hands,  one  busy  taking  what  the 
youngsters  say,  and  the  other  busy  with  what  they  would 
like  to  say.  And  shame  be  it  upon  the  courage  of  youth 
that  what  they  would  like  to  say  fills  the  larger  book.  And 
marvel  of  marvels,  often  the  book  that  holds  what  the  boys 
would  say  is  merely  a  copy  of  what  the  girls  would  like  to 
hear,  and  so  much  of  the  work  is  saved  to  the  angel. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  the  limping  boy  and  the  slen 
der  girl  followed  the  tall  youth  and  the  plump  little  girl 
down  the  walk  from  the  Culpepper  home  through  the  gate 
and  into  the  main  road.  And  the  couple  that  walked  be 
hind  took  the  opposite  direction  from  that  which  they 
took  who  walked  ahead.  Yet  when  John  and  Ellen 
reached  the  river  and  were  seated  on  the  mill-dam,  where 
the  roar  of  the  falling  water  drowned  their  voices,  Ellen 
Culpepper  spoke  first :  "  That  looks  like  them  over  on  the 
bridge.  I  can  see  Molly,  and  Bob's  hat  about  three  feet 
above  her." 

44 1  guess  so,"  returned  the  boy.  He  was  reaching  be 
hind  him  for  clods  and  pebbles  to  toss  into  the  white 
foaming  flood  below  them.  The  girl  reached  back  and 
got  one,  then  another,  then  their  hands  met,  and  she 
pulled  hers  away  and  said,  "Get  me  some  stones."  He 
gave  her  a  handful,  and  she  threw  the  pebbles  away 
slowly  and  awkwardly,  one  at  a  time.  There  was  a  long 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  63 

gap  in  their  talk  while  they  threw  the  pebbles.  The  girl 
closed  it  with,  "  Ma  made  old  Buck  wipe  the  dishes." 
Then  she  giggled,  "  Poor  Buckie." 

John  managed  to  say,  "Yes,  I  heard  him."  Then  he 
added,  "  What  does  your  mother  think  of  Bob  ?  " 

"Oh,  she  likes  him  fine.  But  she's  glad  you're  all  go 
ing  away." 

The  boy  asked  why  and  the  girl  returned,  "  Watch  me 
hit  that  log."  She  threw,  and  missed  the  water. 

"Why  ?"  persisted  the  boy. 

The  girl  was  digging  in  a  crevice  for  a  stone  and  said;' 
"  Can  you  get  that  out  ?  " 

John  worked  at  it  a  moment  and  handed  it  to  her  with, 
"Why?" 

She  threw  it,  standing  up  to  give  her  arm  strength. 
She  sat  down  and  folded  her  hands  and  waited  for  another 
"why."  When  it  came  she  said,  "Oh,  you  know  why." 
When  he  protested  she  answered,  "Ma  thinks  Molly's 
too  young." 

"Too  young  for  what?"  demanded  the  boy,  who  knew. 

"  Too  young  to  be  going  with  boys." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then  he  managed  to  say  it, 
"She's  no  younger  than  you  were — nor  half  as  old." 

"When?"  returned  the  girl,  giving  him  the  broadside 
of  her  eyes  for  a  second,  and  letting  them  droop.  The 
eyes  bewitched  the  boy,  and  he  could  not  speak.  At 
length  the  girl  shivered,  "It's  getting  cold — I  must  go 
home." 

The  boy  found  voice.  "Aw  no,  Bob  and  Molly  are 
still  up  there." 

She  started  to  rise,  he  caught  her  hand,  but  she  pulled 
it  away  and  resigned  herself  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
looked  at  him  a  long  second  and  said,  "Do  you  remem 
ber  years  ago  at  the  Frye  boy's  party  —  when  we  were 
little  tots,  and  I  chose  you?" 

The  boy  nodded  his  head  and  turned  full  toward  her 
with  serious  eyes.  He  devoured  her  feature  by  feature 
with  his  gaze  in  the  starlight.  The  moon  was  just  rising 
at  the  end  of  the  mill-dam  behind  them,  and  its  light  fell 


64  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

on  her  profile.  He  cried  out,  "Yes,  Ellen,  do  you — do 
you?" 

She  nodded  her  head  and  spoke  quickly,  "That  was 
the  time  you  got  your  hands  stuck  in  the  taffy  and  had  to 
be  soaked  out." 

They  laughed.  John  tried  to  get  the  moment  back. 
"Do  you  remember  the  rubber  ring  I  gave  you?" 

She  grew  bold  and  turned  to  him  with  her  heart  in  her 
face:  "Yes — yes,  John,  and  the  coffee-bean  locket.  I've 
got  them  both  in  a 'little  box  at  home."  Then,  scam 
pering  back  to  her  reserve,  she  added,  "  You  know  ma  says 
I'm  a  regular  rat  to  store  things  away."  She  felt  that 
the  sudden  reserve  chilled  him,  for  in  a  minute  or  two  she 
said,  looking  at  the  bridge :  "  They're  going  now.  We 
mustn't  stay  but  a  minute."  She  put  her  hand  on  the 
rock  between  them,  and  said,  "You  remember  that  night 
when  you  went  away  before?"  Before  he  answered  she 
went  on  :  "I  was  counting  up  this  afternoon,  and  it's  six 
years  ago.  We  were  just  children  then." 

Again  the  boy  found  his  voice :  "  Ellen  Culpepper, 
we've  been  going  together  seven  years.  Don't  you  think 
that's  long  enough  ?  " 

"  We  were  just  children  then,"  she  replied. 

The  boy  leaned  awkwardly  toward  her  and  their  hands 
met  on  the  rock,  and  he  withdrew  his  a>s  he  asked,  "  Do 
you  —  do  you?  " 

She  bent  toward  him,  and  looked  at  him  steadily  as  she 
nodded  her  head  again  and  again.  She  rose  to  go,  say 
ing,  "  We  mustn't  stay  here  any  longer." 

He  caught  her  hand  to  stop  her,  and  said,  "Ellen  — 
Ellen,  promise  me  just  one  thing."  She  looked  her  ques 
tion.  He  cried,  "That  you  won't  forget  —  just  that  you 
won't  forget." 

She  took  his  hand  and  stood  before  him  as  he  sat,  hop 
ing  to  stay  her.  She  answered :  "  Not  as  long  as  I  live, 
John  Barclay.  Oh,  not  as  long  as  I  live."  Then  she  ex 
claimed  :  "  Now  — "  and  her  voice  changed,  "  we  just 
must  go,  John  ;  Molly's  gone,  and  it's  getting  late."  She 
helped  him  limp  over  the  rocks  and  up  the  steep  road,  but 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  65 

when  they  reached  the  level,  she  dropped  his  hand,  and 
they  walked  home  slowly,  looking  back  at  the  moon,  so 
that  they  might  not  overtake  the  other  couple.  Once  or 
twice  they  stopped  and  sat  on  lumber  piles  in  the  street, 
talking  of  nothing,  and  it  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  they 
came  to  the  gate.  The  girl  looked  anxiously  up  the  walk 
toward  the  house.  "They've  come  and  gone,"  she  said. 
She  moved  as  if  to  go  away. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  right  in,"  he  begged. 

"  Oh  —  I  ought  to,"  she  replied.  They  were  silent. 
The  roar  of  the  water  over  the  dam  came  to  them  on  the 
evening  breeze.  She  put  out  her  hand. 

"Well,"  he  sighed  as  he  rested  his  lame  foot,  and 
started,  "well  —  good-by." 

She  turned  to  go,  and  then  swiftly  stepped  toward  him, 
and  kissed  him,  and  ran  gasping  and  laughing  up  the  walk. 

The  boy  gazed  after  her  a  moment,  wondering  if  he 
should  follow  her,  but  while  he  waited  she  was  gone,  and  he 
heard  her  lock  the  door  after  her.  Then  he  limped  down 
the  road  in  a  kind  of  swoon  of  joy.  Sometimes  he  tried 
to  whistle  —  he  tried  a  bar  of  Schubert's  "  Serenade,"  but 
consciously  stopped.  Again  and  again  under  his  breath 
as  loud  as  he  dared,  he  called  the  name  "  Ellen  "  and  stood 
gazing  at  the  moon,  and  then  tried  to  hippety-hop,  but 
his  limp  stopped  that.  Then  he  tried  whistling  the 
"  Miserere,"  but  he  pitched  it  too  high,  and  it  ran  out,  so 
he  sang  as  he  turned  across  the  commons  toward  home, 
and  that  helped  a  little ;  and  he  opened  the  door  of  his 
home  singing,  "  How  can  I  leave  thee  —  how  can  I  bear  to 
part? "  The  light  was  burning  in  the  kitchen,  and  he 
went  to  his  mother  and  kissed  her.  His  face  was  aglow, 
and  she  saw  what  had  happened  to  him.  She  put  him 
aside  with,  "  Run  on  to  bed  now,  sonny ;  I've  got  a  little 
work  out  here."  And  he  left  her.  In  the  sitting  room 
only  the  moon  gave  light.  He  stood  at  the  window  a 
moment,  and  then  turned  to  his  melodeon.  His  hands 
fell  on  the  major  chord  of  "  G,"  and  without  knowing 
what  he  was  playing  he  began  "  Largo."  He  played  his 
soul  into  his  music,  and  looking  up,  whispered  the  name 


66  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

u  Ellen"  rapturously  over  and  over,  and  then  as  the  music 
mounted  to  its  climax  the  whole  world's  mystery,  and  his 
personal  thought  of  the  meaning  of  life  revelled  through 
his  brain,  and  he  played  on,  not  stopping  at  the  close  but 
wandering  into  he  knew  not  what  mazes  of  harmony. 
When  his  hands  dropped,  he  was  playing  "  The  Long  and 
Weary  Day,"  and  his  mother  was  standing  behind  him 
humming  it.  When  he  rose  from  the  bench,  she  ran  her 
fingers  through  his  hair  and  spoke  the  words  of  the  song, 
" 4  My  lone  watch  keeping,'  John,  '  my  lone  watch  keep 
ing.'  But  I  think  it  has  been  worth  while." 

Then  she  left  him  and  he  went  to  bed,  with  the  moon 
in  his  room,  and  the  murmur  of  waters  lulling  him  to  sleep. 
But  he  looked  out  into  the  sky  a  long  time  before  his  dream 
came,  and  then  it  slipped  in  gently  through  the  door  of  a 
nameless  hope.  For  he  wished  to  meet  her  in  the  moon 
that  night,  but  when  they  did  meet,  the  white  veil  of  the 
falling  waters  of  the  dam  blew  across  her  face  and  he 
could  not  brush  it  away.  For  one  is  bold  in  dreams. 

A  little  after  sunrise  the  next  morning  John  rode  away 
from  his  mother's  door,  on  one  of  his  horses,  leading  the 
other  one.  He  was  going  up  the  hill  to  get  Bob  Hen- 
dricks,  and  the  two  were  to  ride  to  Lawrence.  He  had  been 
promised  work,  carrying  newspapers,  and  the  Yankee  in 
him  made  him  believe  he  could  find  work  for  the  other 
horse.  As  the  boy  turned  into  Main  Street  waving  his 
mother  good-by,  he  saw  the  places  where  he  and  Ellen 
Culpepper  had  stopped  the  night  before,  and  they  looked 
different  some  way,  and  he  could  not  realize  that  he  was  in 
the  same  street. 

As  he  climbed  the  hill,  he  passed  General  Ward,  work 
ing  in  his  flower  garden,  and  the  man  sprang  over  the 
fence  and  came  into  the  road,  and  put  his  hand  on  the 
horse's  bridle,  saying,  "Stop  a  minute,  John:  I  just 
wanted  to  say  something."  He  hesitated  a  moment  be 
fore  going  on :  "  You  know  back  where  I  came  from  — 
back  in  New  England  —  the  name  of  John  Barclay  stands 

I  for  a  good  deal  —  more  than  you  can  realize,  John.  Your 
father  was  one  of  the  first  martyrs  of  our  cause.  I  guess 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  67 

your  mother  never  has  told  you,  but  I'm  going  to  —  your 
father  gave  up  a  business  career  for  this  cause.  His 
father  was  rich  —  very  rich,  and  your  grandfather  was  set 
on  your  father  going  into  business."  John  looked  up  the 
hill  toward  the  Hendricks  home,  and  Ward  saw  it,  and 
mistook  the  glance  for  one  of  impatience.  "  Johnnie," 
said  the  man,  his  fine  thin  features  glowing  with  earnest 
ness,  "Johnnie — I  wish  I  could  get  to  your  heart,  boy. 
I  want  to  make  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say  with  your 
soul  and  not  with  your  ears,  and  I  know  youth  is  so  deaf. 
Your  grandfather  was  angry  when  your  father  entered  the 
ministry  and  came  out  here.  He  thought  it  was  folly. 
The  old  man  offered  to  give  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  the 
Kansas-Nebraska  cause,  and  that  would  have  sent  a  good 
many  men  out  here.  But  your  father  said  no.  He  said 
money  wouldn't  win  this  cause.  He  said  personal  sacrifice 
was  all  that  would  win  it.  He  said  men  must  give  up 
themselves,  not  their  money,  to  make  this  cause  win  —  and 
so  he  came ;  and  there  was  a  terrible  quarrel,  and  that  is 
why  your  mother  has  stayed.  She  had  faith  in  God,  too 
—  faith  that  her  life  some  way  in  His  Providence  would 
prove  worth  something.  Your  father  and  mother,  John, 
believed  in  God  —  they  believed  in  a  God,  not  a  Moloch  ; 
your  father's  faith  has  been  justified.  The  death  he  died 
was  worth  millions  to  the  cause  of  liberty.  It  stirred  the 
whole  North,  as  the  miserable  little  fifty  thousand  dollars 
that  Abijah  Barclay  offered  never  could  have  done.  But 
your  mother's  sacrifice  must  find  its  justification  in  you. 
And  she,  not  your  father,  made  the  final  decision  to  give 
up  everything  for  human  freedom.  She  has  endured 
poverty,  Johnnie  —  "  the  man's  voice  was  growing  tense, 
and  his  eyes  were  ablaze  ;  "you  know  how  she  worked, 
and  if  you  fail  her,  if  you  do  not  live  a  consecrated  life, 
John,  your  mother's  life  has  failed.  I  don't  mean  a  pious 
life ;  God  knows  I  hate  sanctimony.  But  I  mean  a  life 
consecrated  to  some  practical  service,  to  an  ideal — to 
some  actual  service  to  your  fellows  —  not  money  service, 
but  personal  service.  Do  you  understand?"  Ward, 
leaned  forward  and  looked  into  the  boy's  face.  He  took 


68  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

hold  of  John's  arm  as  he  pleaded,  "  Johnnie  —  boy  — . 
Johnnie,  do  you  understand  ?  " 

The  boy  answered,  "  Yes,  General  —  I  think  I  get  your 
meaning."  He  picked  up  his  bridle,  and  Ward  relaxed 
his  hold  on  the  boy's  arm.  The  man's  hand  dropped  and 
he  sighed,  for  he  saw  only  a  boy's  face,  and  heard  a  boy's 
politeness  in  the  voice  that  went  on,  "  Thank  you,  Gen 
eral,  give  my  love  to  Miss  Lucy."  And  the  youth  rode 
on  up  the  hill. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  boys  were  riding  down  the  steep 
clay  bank  that  led  to  the  new  iron  bridge  across  the  ford 
of  the  Sycamore,  and  for  half  an  hour  they  rode  chattering 
through  the  wood  before  they  came  into  the  valley  and 
soon  were  climbing  the  bluff  which  they  had  seen  the  night 
before  from  the  Culpepper  home.  On  the  brow  of  the 
bluff  Bob  said,  "  Hold  on  — "  He  turned  his  horse  and 
looked  back.  The  sun  was  on  the  town,  and  across  on 
the  opposite  hill  stood  the  'colonel's  big  house  with  its 
proud  pillars.  No  trees  were  about  it  in  those  days,  and 
it  and  the  Hendricks  house  stood  out  clearly  on  the  hori 
zon.  But  on  the  top  of  the  Culpepper  home  were  two  little 
figures  waving  handkerchiefs.  The  boys  waved  back,  and 
John  thought  he  could  tell  Ellen  from  her  sister,  and  the 
night  and  its  joy  came  back  to  him,  and  he  was  silent. 

They  had  ridden  half  an  hour  without  speaking  when 
Bob  Hendricks  said,  "Awful  fine  girls — aren't  they?" 

"  That's  what  I've  always  told  you,"  returned  John. 

After  another  quarter  of  a  mile  Bob  tried  it  -again. 
44  The  colonel's  a  funny  old  rooster  —  isn't  he?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  That  day  at  the  battle  of  Wil 
son's  Creek  when  he  walked  out  in  front  of  a  thousand  sol 
diers  and  got  a  Union  flag  and  brought  it  back  to  the  line, 
he  didn't  look  very  funny.  But  he's  windy  all  right." 

Again,  as  they  crossed  a  creek  and  the  horses  were 
drinking,  Bob  said :  "  Father  thinks  General  Ward's  a 
crank.  He  says  Ward  will  keep  harping  on  about  those 
war  bonds,  and  quarrelling  because  the  soldiers  got  their 
pay  in  paper  money  and  the  bondholders  in  gold,  until 
people  will  think  every  one  in  high  places  is  a  thief." 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  69 

"Oh,  Ward's  all  right,"  answered  John.  "He's  just 
talking;  he  likes  an  argument,  I  guess.  He's  kind  of 
built  that  way." 

It  was  a  poor  starved-to-death  school  that  the  boys 
found  at  Lawrence  in  those  days ;  with  half  a  dozen  in 
structors —  most  of  whom  were  still  in  their  twenties; 
with  books  lent  by  the  instructors,  and  with  appliances 
devised  by  necessity.  But  John  was  happy  ;  he  was  mak-| 
ing  money  with  his  horses,  doing  chores  for  his  board,  and 
carrying  papers  night  and  morning  besides.  The  boy's 
industry  was  the  marvel  of  the  town.  His  limp  got  him 
sympathy,  and  he  capitalized  the  sympathy.  Indeed,  he 
would  have  capitalized  his  soul,  if  it  had  been  necessary. 
For  his  Yankee  blood  was  beginning  to  come  out.  Before 
he  had  been  in  school  a  year  he  had  swapped,  traded,  and 
saved  until  he  had  two  teams,  and  was  working  them 
with  hired  drivers  on  excavation  contracts.  In  his  sum 
mer  vacations  he  went  to  Topeka  and  worked  his  two 
teams,  and  by  some  sharp  practice  got  the  title  to  a  third. 
He  was  rollicking,  noisy,  good-natured,  but  under  the 
boyish  veneer  was  a  hard  indomitable  nature.  He  was 
becoming  a  stickler  for  his  rights  in  every  transaction. 

"  John,"  said  Bob,  one  day  after  John  had  cut  a  particu 
larly  lamentable  figure,  gouging  a  driver  in  a  settlement, 
"don't  you  know  that  your  rights  are  often  others' 
wrongs  ?  " 

John  was  silent  a  moment.  He  looked  at  the  driver  mov 
ing  away,  and  then  the  boy's  face  set  hard  and  he  said: 
"  Well  —  what's  the  use  of  blubbering  over  him  ?  If  I 
don't  get  it,  some  one  else  will.  I'm  no  charitable  institu 
tion  for  John  WalrufFs  brewery  !  "  And  he  snapped  the 
rubber  band  on  his  wallet  viciously,  and  turned  to  his  books. 

But  on  the  other  hand  he  wrote  every  other  day  to  his 
mother  and  every  other  day  to  Ellen  Culpepper  with  un 
wavering  precision.  He  told  his  mother  the  news,  and 
he  -told  Ellen  Culpepper  the  news  plus  some  Emerson, 
something  more  of  "Faust,"  with  such  dashes  of  Long 
fellow  and  Ruskin  as  seemed  to  express  his  soul.  He 
never  wrote  to  Ellen  of  money,  and  so  strong  was  her  in-- 


70  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

fluence  upon  him  that  when  he  had  written  to  her  after  his 
quarrel  with  the  driver,  he  went  out  in  the  night,  hunted 
the  man  up,  and  paid  him  the  disputed  wages.  Then 
he  mailed  Ellen  Culpepper's  letter,  and  was  a  lover  living 
in  an  ethereal  world  as  he  walked  home  babbling  her  name 
in  whispers  to  the  stars.  Often  when  this  mood  was  not 
upon  him,  and  a  letter  was  due  to  Ellen,  he  went  down 
stairs  in  the  house  where  he  lived  and  played  the  piano 
to  bring  her  near  to  him.  That  never  failed  to  change  his 
face  as  by  a  miracle.  "  When  John  comes  upstairs,"  wrote 
Bob  Hendricks  to  Molly,  "  he  is  as  one  in  a  dream,  with 
the  mists  of  the  music  in  his  eyes.  I  never  bother  him 
then.  He  will  not  speak  to  me,  nor  do  a  thing  in  the 
world,  until  that  letter  is  written,  sealed,  and  stamped. 
Then  he  gets  up,  yawns  and  smiles  sheepishly  and  perhaps 
hits  me  with  a  book  or  punches  me  with  his  fist,  and  then  we 
wrestle  over  the  room  and  the  bed  like  bear  cubs.  After 
the  wrestle  he  comes  back  to  himself.  I  wonder  why  ? " 
And  Ellen  Culpepper  read  those  letters  from  John  Bar 
clay  over  and  over,  and  curiously  enough  she  understood 
them  ;  for  there  is  a  telepathy  between  spirits  that  meet 
as  these  two  children's  souls  had  met,  and  in  that  concord 
words  drop  out  and  only  thoughts  are  merchandized.  Her 
spirit  grew  with  his,  and  so  "through  all  the  world  she 
followed  him." 

But  there  came  a  gray  dawn  of  a  May  morning  when 
John  Barclay  clutched  his  bedfellow  and  whispered, 
"Bob,  Bob — look,  look."  When  the  awakened  one  saw 

jnothing,  John  tried  to  scream,  but  could  only  gasp,  "  Don't 

/you  see  Ellen  —  there  —  there  by  the  table  ?  "  But  what 
ever  it  was  that  startled  him  fluttered  away  on  a  beam  of 
sunrise,  and  Bob  Hendricks  rose  with  the  frightened  boy, 
and  went  to  his  work  with  him. 

|       Two  days  later  a  letter  came  telling  him  that  Ellen 

j  Culpepper  was  dead. 

Now  death  —  the  vast  baffling  mystery  of  death  —  is 
Fate's  strongest  lever  to  pry  men  from  their  philosophy. 
And  death  came  into  this  boy's  life  before  his  creed  was 
set  and  hard,  and  in  those  first  days  while  he  walked  far 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  71 

afield,  he  turned  his  face  to  the  sky  in  his  lonely  sorrow, 
and  when  he  cried  to  Heaven  there  was  a  silence. 

So  his  heart  curdled,  and   you  kind  gentlemen  of  the  [ 
jury  who  are  to  pass  on  the  case  of  John  Barclay  in  this/ 
story,  remember  that  he  was  only  twenty  years  old,  and! 
that  in  all  his  life  there  was  nothing  to  symbolize  the  joyj 
of  sacrifice  except  this  young  girl.    All  his  boyish  life  she 
had  nurtured  the  other  self  in  his  soul,  —  the  self  that 
might  have  learned  to  give  and  be  glad  in  the  giving. 
And  when  she  went,  he  closed  his  Emerson  and  opened  his 
Trigonometry,  and  put  money  in  his  purse.1 

There  came  a  time  when  Ellen  Culpepper  was  to  him  as 
a  dream.  But  she  lived  in  her  mother's  eyes,  and  through 
all  the  years  that  followed  the  mother  watched  the  little 
girl  grow  to  maturity  and  into  middle  life  with  the  other 
girls  of  her  age.  And  even  when  the  little  headstone 
on  the  Hill  slanted  in  sad  neglect,  Mrs.  Culpepper's  old 
eyes  still  saw  Ellen  growing  old  with  her  playmates.  And 
she  never  saw  John  Barclay  that  she  did  not  think  of  Ellen 
—  and  what  she  would  have  made  of  him. 

And  what  would  she  have  made  of  him?  Maybe  a 
poet,  maybe  a  dreamer  of  dreams  —  surely  not  the  hard, 
grinding,  rich  man  that  he  became  in  this  world. 

1  To  THE  PUBLISHER.  —  "In  returning  the  Mss.  of  the  life  of  John  Bar 
clay,  which  you  sent  for  my  verification  as  to  certain  dates  and  incidents, 
let  me  first  set  down,  before  discussing  matters  pertaining  to  his  later  life, 
my  belief  that  your  author  has  found  in  the  death  of  Ellen  Culpepper  an 
incident,  humble  though  it  is,  that  explains  much  in  the  character  of  Mr. 
Barclay.  The  incident  probably  produced  a  mental  shock  like  that  of  a 
psychological  earthquake,  literally  sealing  up  the  spring  of  his  life  as  it 
was  flowing  into  consciousness  at  that  time,  and  the  John  Barclay  of  his 
boyhood  and  youth  became  subterranean,  to  appear  later  in  life  after  the 
weakening  of  his  virility  under  the  strain  of  the  crushing  events  of  his  fifties. 
Yet  the  subterranean  Barclay  often  appeared  for  a  moment  in  his  life,  glowed 
in  some  kind  act  and  sank  again.  Ellen  Culpepper  explains  it  all.  How 
many  of  our  lives  are  similarly  divided,  forced  upward  or  downward  by 
events,  Heaven  only  knows.  We  do  not  know  our  own  souls.  I  am  sure 
John  never  knew  of  the  transformation.  Surely  '  we  are  fearfully  and 
wonderfully  made.'  .  .  .  The  other  dates  and  incidents  are  as  I  have 
indicated.  .  .  .  Allow  me  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  in  sending  me 
the  Mss.,  and  permit  me  to  subscribe  myself, 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"PHILEMON  R.  WARD." 


CHAPTER  VI 

JOHN  BARCLAY  returned  to  Sycamore  Ridge  in  1872  a 

\full-fledged  young  man.     He  was  of  a  slight  build  and 

1  rather  pale  of  face,  for  five  years  indoors  had  rubbed  the 

(sunburn  off.     During  the  five  years  he  had  been  absent 

from  Sycamore  Ridge  he  had  acquired  a  master's  degree 

from  the  state  university,  and  a  license  to  practise  law. 

I  He  was  distinctly  dapper,  in  the  black  and  white  checked 

I  trousers,  the  flowered  cravat,  and  tight-fitting  coat  of  the 

period ;    and  the  first  Monday  after  he  and  his  mother 

went  to  the  Congregational  Church,  whereat  John  let  out 

his  baritone  voice,  he  was  invited  to  sing  in  the  choir. 

Bob  Hendricks  came  home  a  year  before  John,  and  with 

Bob  and  Watts  McHurdie  singing  tenor  at  one  end  of  the 

choir,  and  John  and  Philemon  Ward  holding  down  the 

other  end  of  the  line,  with  Mrs.  Ward,  Nellie   Logan, 

Molly  Culpepper,  and  Jane  Mason  of  Minneola,  —  grown 

up  out  of  short  dresses  in  his  absence,  —  all  in  gay  colours 

between  the  sombre  clothes  of  the  men,  the  choir  in  the 

Congregational  Church  was  worth  going  miles  to  see  —  if 

not  to  hear. 

Now  you  know,  of  course,  —  or  if  you  do  not  know,  it  is 
high  time  you  were  learning,  —  that  when  Fate  gives  a 
man  who  can  sing  a  head  of  curly  hair,  the  devil,  who  is 
after  us  all,  quits  worrying  about  that  young  person.  For 
the  Old  Boy  knows  that  a  voice  and  curly  hair  are  mort 
gages  on  a  young  man's  soul  that  few  young  fellows  ever 
pay  off.  Now  there  was  neither  curly  head  nor  music  in 
all  the  Barclay  tribe,  and  when  John  sang  "  Through  the 
trees  the  night  winds  murmur,  murmur  low  and  sweet," 
his  mother  could  shut  her  eyes  and  hear  Uncle  Leander, 
the  black  sheep  of  three  generations  of  Thatchers.  So 
that  the  fact  that  John  had  something  over  a  thousand 

72 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  73 

dollars  to  put  in  General  Hendricks'  bank,  and  owned! 
half  a  dozen  town  lots  in  the  various  additions  to  the\ 
town,  made  the  mother  thankful  for  the  Grandfather 
Barclay's  blood  in  him.  But  she  saw  a  soul  growing  into 
the  boy's  face  that  frightened  her.  What  others  ad 
mired  as  strength  she  feared,  for  she  knew  it  was  ruth- 
lessnese.  What  others  called  shrewdness  she,  remember 
ing  his  Grandfather  Barclay,  knew  might  grow  into  blind, 
cruel  greed,  and  when  she  thought  of  his  voice  and  his 
curly  hair,  and  recalled  Uncle  Leander,  the  curly-headed, 
singing  ne'er-do-well  of  her  family,  and  then  in  the  boy's 
hardening  mouth  and  his  canine  jaw  saw  Grandfather 
Barclay  sneering  at  her,  she  was  uncertain  which  blood 
she  feared  most.  So  she  managed  it  that  John  should  go 
into  partnership  with  General  Ward,  and  Bob  Hendricks 
managed  it  that  the  firm  should  have  offices  over  the  bank, 
and  also  that  the  firm  was  made  attorneys  for  the  bank,  — 
the  highest  mark  of  distinction  that  may  come  to  a  law 
firm  in  a  country  town.  The  general  realized  it  and  was 
proud.  But  he  thought  the  young  man  took  it  too  much 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

"John,"  said  the  general,  one  day,  as  they  were  dividing 
their  first  five-hundred-dollar  fee,  "you're  a  lucky  dog. 
Everything  comes  so  easily  with  you.  Let  me  tell  you 
something;  I've  figured  this  out:  if  you  don't  give  it 
back  some  way  —  give  it  back  to  the  world,  or  society,  or 
your  fellows,  —  or  God,  if  you  like  to  bunch  your  good 
luck  under  one  head,  —  you're  surely  going  to  suffer  for  it. 
There  is  no  come-easy-go-easy  in  this  world.  I've  learned 
that  much  of  the  scheme  of  things." 

"  You  mean  that  I've  got  to  pay  as  I  go,  or  Providence 
will  keep  books  on  me  and  foreclose  ?  "  asked  John,  as  he 
stood  patting  the  roll  of  bills  in  his  trousers  pocket. 

"  That's  the  idea,  son,"  smiled  the  elder  man. 

The  younger  man  put  his  hand  to  his  chin  and  grinned. 
"  I  suppose,"  he  replied,  "  that's  why  so  many  men  keep 
the  title  to  their  religious  proclivities  in  their  wife's 
name."  He  went  out  gayly,  and  the  elder  man  heard 
the  boyish  limp  almost  tripping  down  the  stairs.  Ward 


74  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

walked  to  the  window,  straightening  his  white  tie,  and 
stood  looking  into  the  street  at  the  young  man  shak 
ing  hands  and  bowing  and  raising  his  hat  as  he  went. 
Ward's  hair  was  graying  at  the  temples,  and  his  thin 
smooth  face  was  that  of  a  man  who  spends  many  hours 
considering  many  things,  and  he  sighed  as  he  saw  John 
turn  a  corner  and  disappear. 

"  No,  Lucy,  that's  not  it  exactly,"  said  the  general  that 
afternoon,  as  he  brought  the  sprinkler  full  of  water  to  the 
flower  bed  for  the  eighth  time,  and  picketed  little  Harriet 
Beecher  Ward  out  of  the  watermelon  patch,  and  wheeled 
the  baby's  buggy  to  the  four-o'clocks,  where  Mrs.  Ward 
was  working.  "  It  isn't  that  he  is  conceited  —  the  boy 
isn't  that  at  all.  He  just  seems  to  have  too  little  faith  in 
God  and  too  much  in  the  ability  of  John  Barclay.  He 
thinks  he  can  beat  the  game  —  can  take  out  more  happi 
ness  for  himself  than  he  puts  in  for  others." 

The  wife  looked  up  and  put  back  her  sunbonnet  as  she 
said,  "  Yes,  I  believe  his  mother  thinks  something  of  the 
kind." 

One  of  the  things  that  surprised  John  when  he  came 
home  from  the  university  was  the  prominence  of  Lige 
Bemis  in  the  town.  When  John  left  Sycamore  Ridge  to 
go  to  school,  Bemis  was  a  drunken  sign-painter  married  to 
a  woman  who  a  few  years  before  had  been  the  scandal  of 
half  a  dozen  communities.  And  now  though  Mrs.  Bemis 
was  still  queen  only  of  the  miserable  unpainted  Bemis  domi 
cile  in  the  sunflowers  at  the  edge  of  town,  Lige  Bemis 
politically  was  a  potentate  of  some  power.  General  Hen- 
dricks  consulted  Bemis  about  politics.  Often  he  was 
found  in  the  back  room  of  the  bank,  and  Colonel  Culpep- 
per,  although  he  was  an  unterrified  Democrat,  in  his  cam 
paign  speeches  referred  to  Bemis  as  "a  diamond  in  the 
rough."  John  was  sitting  on  a  roll  of  leather  one  day  in 
Watts  McHurdie's  shop  talking  of  old  times  when  Watts 
recalled  the  battle  of  Sycamore  Ridge,  and  the  time  when 
Bemis  came  to  town  with  the  Red  Legs  and  frightened 
Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  Yes  —  and  now  look  at  him,"  exclaimed  John,  "  dressed 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  75 

tip  like  a  gambler,  and  referred  to  in  the  Banner  as  '  Hon. 
E.  W.  Bemis '  !     How  did  he  do  it  ?  " 

McHurdie  sewed  two  or  three  long  stitches  in  silence. 
He  leaned  over  from  his  bench  to  throw  his  tobacco  quid 
in  the  sawdust  box  under  the  rusty  stove,  then  the  little 
man  scraped  his  fuzzy  jaw  reflectively  with  his  blackened 
hand  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  he  thought  better  of  it  and 
waxed  his  thread.  He  showed  his  yellow  teeth  in  a  smile, 
and  motioned  John  to  come  closer.  Then  he  put  his  head 
forward,  and  whispered  confidentially:  — 

"  What'd  you  ruther  do  or  go  a-fishing  ?  " 

"  But  why  ?  "  persisted  the  young  man. 

"  Widder  who  ?  "  returned  Watts,  grinning  and  putting 
his  hand  to  his  ear. 

When  John  repeated  his  question  the  third  time,  Mc 
Hurdie  said :  — 

"  I  know  a  way  you  can  get  rich  mighty  quick,  sonny." 
And  when  the  boy  refused  to  "bite,"  Watts  went  on: 
"  If  any  one  asks  you  what  Watts  McHurdie  thinks  about 
politics  so  long  as  he  is  in  the  harness  business,  you  just 
take  the  fellow  upstairs,  and  pull  down  the  curtain,  and 
lock  the  door,  and  tell  him  you  don't  know,  and  not  to  tell 
a  living  soul." 

With  Bob  Hendricks,  John  had  little  better  success  in 
solving  the  mystery  of  the  rise  of  Bemis.  "  Father  says 
he's  effective,  and  he  would  rather  have  him  for  him  than 
against  him,"  was  the  extent  of  Bob's  explanation. 

Ward's  answer  was  more  to  the  point.  He  said  :  "Lige 
Bemis  is  a  living  example  of  the  power  of  soft  soap  in 
politics.  We  know  —  every  man  in  this  county  knows  — 
that  Lige  Bemis  was  a  horse  thief  before  the  war,  and 
that  he  was  a  cattle  thief  and  a  camp-follower  during  the 
war ;  and  after  the  war  we  know  what  he  was  —  he  and 
the  woman  he  took  up  with.  Yet  here  he  has  been  a 
member  of  the  legislature  and  is  beginning  to  be  a  figure 
in  state  politics,  —  at  least  the  one  to  whom  the  governor 
and  all  the  fellows  write  when  they  want  information 
about  this  county.  Why  ?  I'll  tell  you :  because  he's 
committed  every  crime  and  can't  denounce  one  and  goes 


76  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

about  the  country  extenuating  things  and  oiling  people 
up  with  his  palaver.  Now  he  says  he  is  a  lawyer  —  yes, 
sir,  actually  claims  to  be  a  lawyer,  and  brought  his 
diploma  into  court  two  years  ago,  and  they  accepted  it. 
But  I  know,  and  the  court  knows,  and  the  bar  knows  it 
was  forged ;  it  belonged  to  his  dead  brother  back  in 
Hornellsville,  New  York.  But  Hendricks  downstairs 
said  we  needed  Lige  in  the  county-seat  case,  so  he  is  a 
member  of  the  bar,  taking  one  hundred  per  cent  for  collect 
ing  accounts  for  Eastern  people,  and  giving  the  country  a 
black  eye.  A  man  told  me  he  was  on  over  fifty  notes 
for  people  at  the  bank;  he  signs  with  every  one,  and 
Hendricks  never  bothers  him.  He  managed  to  get  into 
all  the  lodges,  right  after  the  war  when  they  were  reor 
ganized,  and  he  sits  up  with  the  sick,  and  is  pall-bearer 
—  regular  professional  pall-bearer,  and  I  don't  doubt  gets 
a  commission  for  selling  coffins  from  Livingston."  Ward 
rose  from  the  table  his  full  six  feet  and  put  his  hands  in 
his  pocket  and  stretched  his  legs  as  he  added,  "And 
when  you  think  how  many  Bemises  in  the  first,  second,  or 
third  degree  there  are  in  this  government,  you  wonder  if 
the  Democrats  weren't  right  when  they  declared  the  war 
was  a  failure." 

The  general  spoke  as  he  did  to  John  partly  in  anger 
and  partly  because  he  thought  the  youth  needed  the 
lesson  he  was  trying  to  implant.  "  You  know,  Martin," 
explained  the  general,  a  few  days  later,  to  Colonel  Cul- 
pepper,  "John  has  come  home  a  Barclay  —  not  a  Barclay 
of  his  father's  stripe.  He  has  taken  back,  as  they  say. 
It's  old  Abijah  —  with  the  mouth  and  jaw  of  a  wolf.  I 
caught  him  palavering  with  a  juror  the  other  day  while 
we  had  a  case  trying." 

The  colonel  rested  his  hands  on  his  knees  a  moment  in 
meditation  and  smiled  as  he  replied  :  "  Still,  there's  his 
mother,  General.  Don't  ever  forget  that  the  boy's  mother 
is  Mary  Barclay ;  she  has  bred  most  of  the  wolf  out  of  him. 
And  in  the  end  her  blood  will  tell." 

And  now  observe  John  Barclay  laying  the  footing  stones 
of  his  fortune.  He  put  every  dollar  he  could  get  into 


A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  77 

town  lots,  paying  for  all  he  bought  and  avoiding  mort-  I 
gages.  Also  he  joined  Colonel  Culpepper  in  putting  the  1 
College  Heights  upon  the  market.  "  For  what,"  explained 
the  colonel,  when  the  propriety  of  using  the  name  for  his 
addition  was  questioned,  when  no  college  was  there  nor 
any  prospect  of  a  college  for  years  to  come  — "  what  is 
plainer  to  the  prophetic  eye  than  that  time  will  bring  to 
this  magnificent  city  an  institution  of  learning  worthy  of 
our  hopes?  I  have  noticed,"  added  the  colonel,  waving  his 
cigar  broadly  about  him,  "  that  learning  is  a  shy  goddess  ; 
she  has  to  be  coaxed  —  hence  on  these  empyrean  heights 
we  have  provided  for  a  seat  of  learning  ;  therefore  College 
Heights.  Look  at  the  splendid  vista,  the  entrancing  view, 
in  point  of  fact."  It  was  the  large  white  plumes  dancing 
in  the  colonel's  prophetic  eyes.  So  it  happened  that  more 
real  estate  buyers  than  clients  came  to  the  office  of  Ward 
and  Barclay.  But  as  the  general  that  fall  had  been  out 
of  the  office  running  for  Congress  on  the  Greeley  ticket, 
still  protesting  against  the  crime  of  paying  the  soldiers  in 
paper  and  the  bondholders  in  gold,  he  did  not  miss  the 
clients,  and  as  John  saw  to  it  that  there  was  enough  law 
business  to  keep  Mrs.  Ward  going,  the  general  returned 
from  the  canvass  overwhelmingly  beaten,  but  not  in  the 
least  dismayed ;  and  as  Jake  Dolan  put  it,  "  The  general 
had  his  say  and  the  people  had  their  choice  —  so  both  are 
happy." 

As  the  winter  deepened  John  and  Colonel  Culpepper 
planted  five  hundred  elm  trees  on  the  campus  on  College 
Heights,  lining  three  broad  avenues  leading  from  the  town 
to  the  campus  with  the  trees.  John  rode  into  the  woods 
and  picked  the  trees,  and  saw  that  each  one  was  properly 
set.  And  the  colonel  noticed  that  the  finest  trees  were 
on  Ellen  Avenue  and  spoke  of  it  to  Mrs.  Culpepper,  who 
only  said,  "Yes,  pa  —  that's  just  like  him."  And  the 
colonel  looked  puzzled.  And  when  the  colonel  added, 
"They  say  he  is  shining  up  to  that  Mason  girl  from 
Minneola,  that  comes  here  with  Molly,"  his  wife  returned, 
"  Yes,  I  expected  that  sooner  than  now."  The  colonel 
gave  the  subject  up.  The  ways  of  women  were  past  his 


78  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

finding  out.  But  Mrs.  Culpepper  had  heard  Jane  Mason 
sing  a  duet  in  church  with  John  Barclay,  and  the  elder 
woman  had  heard  in  the  big  contralto  voice  of  the  girl 
something  not  meant  for  the  preacher.  And  Mrs.  Cul 
pepper  heard  John  answer  it,  so  she  knew  what  he  did  not 
know,  what  Jane  Mason  did  not  know,  and  what  only 
Molly  Culpepper  suspected,  and  Bob  Hendricks  scoffed  at. 

As  for  John,  he  said  to  Bob :  "  I  know  why  you  always 
want  me  to  go  over  with  you  and  Molly  to  get  the 
Mason  girl  —  by  cracky,  I'm  the  only  fellow  in  town  that 
will  let  you  and  Molly  have  the  back  seat  coming  home 
without  a  fuss  !  No,  Robbie  —  you  don't  fool  your  Uncle 
John."  And  so  when  there  was  to  be  special  music  at  the 
church,  or  when  any  other  musical  event  was  expected, 
John  and  Bob  would  get  a  two-seated  buggy,  and  drive  to 
Minnaola  and  bring  the  soloist  back  with  them.  And 
there  would  be  dances  and  parties,  and  coming  from  Min- 
neola  and  going  back  there  would  be  much  singing.  "The 
fox  is  on'  the  hill,  I  hear  him  calling  still,"  was  a  favour 
ite,  but  "  Come  where  the  lilies  bloom  "  rent  the  mid 
night  air  between  the  rival  towns  many  times  that  winter 
and  spring  of  ;73.  And  never  once  did  John  try  to  get 
the  back  seat.  But  there  came  a  time  when  Bob  Hendricks 
told  him  that  Molly  told  him  that  Jane  had  said  that 
Molly  and  Bob  were  pigs  —  never  to  do  any  of  the  driving. 
And  the  next  time  there  was  a  trip  to  Minneola,  John  said 
as  the  young  people  were  seated  comfortably  for  the  re 
turn  trip,  "  Molly,  I  heard  you  said  that  I  was  a  pig  to  do 
all  the  driving,  and  not  let  you  and  Bob  have  a  chance. 
Was  that  true?  " 

"  No  —  but  do  you  want  to  know  who  did  say  it  ?  " 
answered  Molly,  and  Jane  Mason  looked  straight  ahead 
and  cut  in  with,  "  Molly  Culpepper,  if  you  say  another 
word,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  as  long  as  I  live."  But  she 
glanced  down  at  Barclay,  who  caught  her  eye  and  saw  the 
smile  she  was  swallowing,  and  he  cried:  "I  don't  believe 
you  ever  said  it,  Molly,  —  it  must  have  been  some  one  else." 
And  when  they  had  all  had  their  say,  —  all  but  Jejie  Mason, 
• —  John  saw  that  she  was  crying,  and  the  others  had  to 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  79 

sing  for  ten  minutes  without  her,  before  they  could  coax 
away  her  temper.  And  crafty  as  he  was,  he  did  not  know 
it  was  temper  —  he  thought  it  was  something  entirely 
different. 

For  the  craft  of  youth  always  is  clumsy.  The  business 
of  youth  is  to  fight  and  to  mate.  Wherever  there  is  young 
blood,  there  is  "  boot  and  horse,"  and  John  Barclay  in  his 
early  twenties  felt  in  him  the  call  for  combat.  It  came 
with  the  events  that  were  forming  about  him.  For  the 
war  between  the  states  had  left  the  men  restless  and  un 
satisfied  who  had  come  into  the  plain  to  make  their  homes. 
They  had  heard  and  followed  in  their  youth  the  call  John 
Barclay  was  hearing,  and  after  the  war  was  over,  they  were 
still  impatient  with  the  obstacles  they  found  in  their  paths. 
So  Sycamore  Ridge  and  Minneola,  being  rival  towns,  had 
to  fight.  The  men  who  made  these  towns  knew  no  better 
settlement  than  the  settlement  by  force.  And  even  dur 
ing  his  first  six  months  at  home  from  school,  when  John 
sniffed  the  battle  from  afar,  he  was  glad  in  his  soul  that 
tile  fight  was  coming.  Sycamore  Ridge  had  the  county- 
seat  ;  but  Minneola,.  having  a  majority  of  the  votes  in  the 
county,  was  trying  to  get  the  county-seat,  and  the  situa 
tion  grew  so  serious  for  Sycamore  Ridge  that  General 
Hendricks  felt  it  necessary  to  defeat  Philemon  Ward  for 
the  state  senate  so  that  Sycamore  Ridge  could  get  a  law 
passed  that  would  prevent  Minneola's  majority  from 
changing  the  county-seat.  This  was  done  by  a  law  which 
Hendricks  secured,  giving  the  county  commissioners  the 
right  to  build  a  court-house  by  direct  levy,  without  a  vote 
of  the  people,  — a  court-house  so  large  that  it  would  settle 
the  county-seat  matter  out  of  hand. 

The  general,  however,  took  no  chances  even  with  his 
commissioners.  For  he  had  his  son  elected  as  one,  and  with 
the  knowledge  that  John  was  investing  in  real  estate  in 
the  Ridge  and  had  an  eye  for  the  main  chance,  the  gen 
eral  picked  John  for  the  other  commissioner.  The  place 
was  on  the  firing-line  of  the  battle,  and  John  took  it 
almost  greedily.  As  the  spring  of  '73  opened,  there  were 
alarms  and  rumours  of  strife  on  every  breeze,  and  youth 


80  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

was  happy  and  breathed*  the  fight  into  its  nostrils  like  a 
balsam.  For  all  the  world  of  Sycamore  Ridge  was  young 
then,  and  all  the  trees  were  green  in  the  eyes  of  the  men 
who  kept  up  the  town.  Each  town  had  its  hired  despera 
does,  and  there  were  pickets  about  each  village,  and  drills 
in  the  streets  of  the  two  towns,  and  a  martial  spirit  all 
over  the  county.  And  as  John  limped  about  his  tasks  in 
those  stirring  spring  days,  he  felt  that  he  was  coming  into 
his  own.  But  it  was  all  a  curious  mock  combat,  —  that 
between  the  towns, — for  though  the  pickets  drilled,  and  the 
bad  men  swaggered  on  the  streets,  and  the  bullies  roared 
their  anathemas,  the  social  relations  between  the  towns 
were  not  seriously  disturbed.  Youths  and  maidens  came 
from  Minneola  to  the  Ridge  for  parties  and  dances,  and 
from  the  Ridge  young  men  went  to  Minneola  to  weddings 
and  festivals  of  a  social  nature  unmolested,  for  it  takes  a 
real  war  —  and  sometimes  more  than  that  —  to  put  a  bar 
across  the  mating  ground  of  youth.  So  Bob  and  Molly 
and  John  drove  to  Minneola  time  and  again  for  Jane 
Mason,  and  other  boys  and  girls  came  and  went  from 
town  to  town,  while  the  bitterness  and  the  bickering  and 
the  mimic  war  between  the  rival  communities  went  on. 

Dolan  was  made  sheriff,  and  Bemis  county  attorney,  and 
with  those  two  officers  and  a  majority  of  the  county  com 
missioners  the  Ridge  had  the  forces  of  administration  with 
her.  And  so  one  night  Minneola  came  with  her  wrinkled 
front  of  war;  viz.,  forty  fighting  men  under  Gabriel  Carnine 
and  an  ox  team,  prepared  to  take  the  county  records  by 
force  and  haul  them  home  by  main  strength.  But  Lycur- 
gus  Mason,  whose  wife  had  locked  him  in  the  cellar  that 
night  to  keep  him  from  danger,  was  the  cackling  goose 
that  saved  Rome ;  for  when,  having  escaped  his  wife's  vigi 
lance,  he  came  riding  down  the  wind  from  Minneola  to 
catch  up  with  his  fellow-townsmen,  his  clatter  aroused  the 
men  of  the  Ridge,  and  they  hurried  to  the  court-house  and 
greeted  the  invaders  with  half  a  thousand  armed  men  in 
the  court-house  yard.  And  in  a  crisis  where  craft  and 
cunning  would  not  help  him,  courage  came  out  of  John 
Barclay's  soul  for  the  first  time  and  into  his  life  as  he 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  81 

limped  through  the  guns  into  the  open  to  explain  to  the 
men  from  Minneola  when  they  finally  arrived  that  Lycurgus 
Mason  had  not  betrayed  them,  but  had  rushed  into  the 
town,  thinking  his  friends  were  there  ahead  of  him.  It 
was  a  plucky  thing  for  John  to  do,  considering  that  his 
death  would  stop  the  making  of  the  levy  for  the  court 
house  that  was  to  be  recorded  in  a  few  days.  But  the 
young  man's  blood  tingled  with  joy  as  he  jumped  the 
court-house  fence  and  went  back  to  his  men.  There  was 
something  like  a  smile  from  Jane  Mason  in  his  joy,  but 
chiefly  it  was  the  joy  that  youth  has  in  daring,  that  thrilled 
him.  And  the  next  day,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  next,  —  at 
any  rate,  it  was  a  Sunday  late  in  June,  —  when  an  armed 
posse  from  Minneola  came  charging  down  on  the  town  at 
noon,  John  ran  from  his  office  unseen,  over  the  roofs  of 
buildings  upon  which  as  a  boy  he  had  romped,  and  ducking 
through  a  second-story  window  in  Frye's  store,  got  two 
kegs  of  powder,  ran  out  of  the  back  door,  under  the  ex 
posed  piling  supporting  the  building,  put  the  two  kegs  of 
powder  in  a  wooden  culvert  under  the  ammunition  wagons 
of  the  Minneola  men,  who  were  battling  with  the  town  in 
the  street,  and  taking  a  long  fuse  in  his  teeth,  crawled 
back  to  the  alley,  lit  the  fuse,  and  ran  into  the  street  to 
look  into  the  revolver  of  J.  Lord  Lee  —  late  of  the  Red 
Legs  —  and  warn  him  to  run  or  be  blown  up  with  the 
wagons.  And  when  the  explosion  came,  knocking  him 
senseless,  he  woke  up  a  hero,  with  the  town  bending  over 
him,  and  Minneola's  forces  gone. 

And  so  John  and  the  town  had  their  fling  together. 
And  we  who  sit  among  our  books  or  by  our  fire  —  or  if 
not  that  by  our  iron  radiator  exuding  its  pleasance  and  com 
fort  —  should  not  sniff  at  that  day  when  blood  pulsed  quicker, 
and  joy  was  keener,  and  life  was  more  vivid  than  it  is 
to-day. 

Thirty-five  years  later  —  in  August,  1908,  to  be  exact  — 
the  general,  in  his  late  seventies,  sat  in  McHurdie's  harness 
shop  while  the  poet  worked  at  his  bench.  On  the  floor 
beside  the  general  was  the  historical  edition  of  the  Syca 
more  Ridge  Banner  —  rather  an  elaborate  affair,  printed  on 


82  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

glossy  paper  and  bedecked  with  many  photogravures  of 
old  scenes  and  old  faces.  A  page  of  the  paper  was  devoted 
to  the  County  Seat  War  of  '73.  The  general  had  furnished 
the  material  for  most  of  the  article,  —  though  he  would  not 
do  the  writing,  —  and  he  held  the  sheet  with  the  story  upon 
it  in  his  hand.  As  he  read  it  in  the  light  of  that  later 
day,  it  seemed  a  sordid  story  of  chicanery  and  violence  — 
the  sort  of  an  episode  that  one  would  expect  to  find  follow 
ing  a  great  war.  The  general  read  and  reread  the  old 
story  of  the  defeat  of  Minneola,  and  folded  his  paper  and 
rolled  it  into  a  wand  with  which  he  conjured  up  his  spirit 
of  philosophy.  "  Heigh-ho,"  he  sighed.  "  We  don't  know 
much,  do  we?" 

McHurdie  made  no  reply.  He  bent  closely  over  his 
work,  and  the  general  went  on:  "  I  was  mighty  mad  when 
Hendricks  defeated  me  for  the  state  senate  in  '72,  just  to 
get  that  law  passed  cheating  Minneola  out  of  a  fair  vote 
on  the  court-house  question.  But  it's  come  out  all  right." 

The  harness  maker  sewed  on,  and  the  general  reflected. 
Finally  the  little  man  at  the  bench  turned  his  big  dimmed 
eyes  on  his  visitor,  and  asked,  "  Did  you  think,  General, 
that  you  knew  more  than  the  Lord  about  making  things 
come  out  right  ? "  There  was  no  reply  and  McHurdie 
continued,  "  Well,  you  don't  —  I've  got  that  settled  in 
my  mind." 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  and  Ward  kept  beating  his 
leg  with  the  paper  wand  in  his  hand.  "  Watts,"  said  the 
general,  finally,  "  I  know  what  it  was  —  it  was  youth. 
John  Barclay  had  to  go  through  that  period.  Pie  had  to 
fight  and  wrangle  and  grapple  with  life  as  he  did.  Do 
you  remember  that  night  the  Minneola  Bellows  came  up 
with  their  ox  team  and  their  band  of  killers  to  take  the 
county  records  —  "  and  there  was  more  of  it  —  the  old 
story  of  the  town's  wild  days  that  need  not  be  recorded, 
and  in  the  end,  in  answer  to  some  query  from  the  general 
on  John's  courage,  Watts  replied,  "  John  was  always  a  bold 
little  fice  —  he  never  lacked  brass." 

"  Was  he  going  with  Jane  Mason  then,  Watts,  —  I  for 
get  ?  "  queried  the  general. 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  83 

"Yes — yes,"  replied  McHurdie.  "Don't  you  remem 
ber  that  very  next  night  she  sang  in  the  choir  —  well,  John 
had  brought  her  over  from  Minneola  two  days  before,  and 
that  Sunday  when  the  little  devil  went  in  the  culvert  across 
Main  Street  and  blew  up  the  Minneola  wagons,  Jane  was  in 
town  that  day  —  I  remember  that;  and  man  —  man  —  I 
heard  her  voice  say  things  to  him  in  the  duet  that  night 
that  she  would  have  been  ashamed  to  put  in  words." 

The  two  old  men  were  silent.  "That  was  youth,  too, 
Watts,  —  fighting  and  loving,  and  loving  and  fighting,  — 
that's  youth,"  sighed  the  general. 

"  Well,  Johnnie  got  his  belly  full  of  it  in  his  day,  as  old 
Shakespeare  says,  Phil  —  and  in  your  day  you  had  yours, 
too.  Every  dog,  General  —  every  dog  —  you  know. "  The 
two  voices  were  silent,  as  two  old  men  looked  back  through 
the  years. 

McHurdie  put  the  strap  he  was  working  upon  in  the 
water,  and  turned  with  his  spectacles  in  his  hands  to  his 
comrade.  "Maybe  it's  this  way:  with  a  man,  it's  fighting 
and  loving  before  we  get  any  sense ;  and  with  a  town  it's 
the  same  way,  and  I  guess  with  the  race  it's  the  same  way 
—  fighting  and  loving  and  growing  sensible  after  it's  over. 
Maybe  so  —  maybe  so,  Phil,  comrade,  but  man,  man,"  he 
said  as  he  climbed  on  his  bench,  "  it's  fine  to  be  a  fool!  " 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  Sycamore  Ridge  every  one  knows  Watts  McHurdie, 
and  every  one  takes  pride  in  the  fact  that  far  and  wide  the 
Ridge  is  known  as  Watts  McHurdie's  town,  and  this  too  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  from  Sycamore  Ridge  Bob  Hendricks 
gained  his  national  reputation  as  a  reformer  and  the  fur 
ther  fact  that  when  the  Barclays  went  to  New  York  or 
Chicago  or  to  California  for  the  winter  in  their  private  car, 
they  always  registered  from  Sycamore  Ridge  at  the  great 
hotels.  One  would  think  that  the  town  would  be  known 
more  as  Hendricks'  town  or  Barclay's  town  ;  but  no  — 
nothing  of  the  kind  has  happened,  and  when  the  rich  and 
the  great  go  forth  from  the  Ridge,  people  say:  "  Oh,  yes, 
Sycamore  Ridge  —  that's  Watts  McHurdie's  town,  who 
wrote  —  "  but  people  from  the  Ridge  let  the  inquirers  get 
no  farther;  they  say:  "Exactly  —  it's  Watts  McHurdie's 
town  —  and  you  ought  to  see  him  ride  in  the  open  hack 
with  the  proprietor  of  a  circus  when  it  comes  to  the  Ridge 
and  all  the  bands  and  the  calliope  are  playing  Watts'  song. 
The  way  the  people  cheer  shows  that  it  is  really  Watts 
McHurdie's  town."  So  when  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper 
wrote  the  "  Biography  of  Watts  McHurdie "  which  was 
published  together  with  McHurdie's  "  Complete  Poetical 
and  Philosophical  Works,"  there  was  naturally  much  dis 
cussion,  and  the  town  was  more  or  less  divided  as  to  what 
part  of  the  book  was  the  best.  But  the  old  settlers,  — 
those  who,  during  the  drouth  of  '60,  ate  mince  pies  with 
pumpkins  as  the  fruit  and  rabbit  meat  as  the  filling  and 
New  Orleans  black-strap  as  the  sweetening,  the  old  set 
tlers  who  knew  Watts  before  he  became  famous,  —  they 
like  best  of  all  the  chapters  in  the  colonel's  Biography  the 
one  entitled  "At  Hymen's  Altar."  And  here  is  a  curious 

84 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  85 

thing  about  it :  in  that  chapter  there  is  really  less  of  Watts 
and  considerably  more  of  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper  than 
in  any  other  chapter. 

But  the  newcomers,  those  who  came  in  the  prosperous 
days  of  the  70's  or  80's,  never  could  understand  the  par 
tiality  of  the  old  settlers  for  the  "Hymen's  Altar"  chapter. 
Lycurgus  Mason  also  always  took  the  view  that  the 
"  Hymen  "  chapter  was  drivel. 

"  Now,  John,  be  sensible  — "  Lycurgus  insisted  one  night 
in  1903  when  the  two  were  eating  supper  in  Barclay's 
private  car  on  a  side-track  in  Arizona;  "don't  be  like  my 
wife  —  she  always  drools  over  that  chapter,  too.  But 
you  know  my  wife  — "  Lycurgus  always  referred  to  Mrs. 
Mason  with  a  grand  gesture  as  to  his  dog  or  his  horse, 
which  were  especially  desirable  chattels.  "  My  wife,  — 
it's  just  like  a  woman,  —  she  sits  and  reads  that,  and  laughs 
and  weeps,  and  giggles  and  sniffs,  and  I  say,  4  What's  the 
matter  with  you,  anyway  ?  ' ' 

John  Barclay  pushed  a  button.  To  the  porter  he  said, 
"  Bring  me  that  little  red  book  in  my  satchel."  The  book 
had  been  published  but  a  few  weeks,  and  John  always 
carried  a  copy  around  with  him  in  those  days  to  give  to  a 
friend.  When  the  porter  brought  the  book,  Barclay  read 
aloud,  "  Ah,  truly  hath  the  poet  said, 4  Marriages  are  made 
in  heaven.' ' 

But  Lycurgus  Mason  pulled  his  napkin  from  under  his 
chin  and  moved  back  from  the  table,  dusting  the  crumbs 
from  his  obviously  Sunday  clothes.  "There  you  go  — 
that's  it ;  4  as  the  poet  says.'  John,  if  you  heard  that '  as  the 
poet  says '  as  often  as  I  do  — "  He  could  not  finish  the  fig 
ure.  But  he  sniffed  out  his  disgust  with  "  as  the  poet  says." 
"  It  wasn't  so  bad  when  we  were  in  the  hotel,  and  she  was 
busy  with  something  else.  But  now  —  but  now  —  "  he 
repeated  it  the  third  time,  "  but  now  —  honest,  every  time 
that  woman  goes  to  get  up  a  paper  for  the  Hypatia  Club, 
she  gets  me  in  the  parlour,  and  rehearses  it  to  me,  and  the 
dad-binged  thing  is  simply  packed  full  of  'as  the  poet 
sayses.'  And  about  that  marriages  being  made  in 
heaven,  I  tell  my  wife  this:  I  say,  'Maybe  so,  but  if 


86  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

they  are,  I  know  one  that  was  made  on  a  busy  day  when 
the  angels  were  thinking  of  something  else.' ' 

And  John  Barclay,  who  knew  Mrs.  Mason  and  knew 
Lycurgus,  knew  that  he  would  as  soon  think  of  throwing 
a  bomb  at  the  President  as  to  say  such  a  thing  to  her ;  so 
John  asked  credulously  :  "  You  did  ?  Well,  well !  Say, 
what  did  she  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  That's  it  -  •"  responded  Lycurgus.  (<  That's  it.  What 
could  she  say?  I  had  her."  He  walkea  the  length  of 
the  room  proudly,  with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets. 

Barclay  moved  his  chair  to  the  rear  of  the  car,  where  he 
sat  smoking  and  looking  into  the  clear  star-lit  heavens 
above  the  desert.  And  his  mind  went  back  thirty  years 
to  the  twilight  in  June  after  he  had  set  off  the  powder 
keg  in  the  culvert  under  Main  Street  in  Sycamore  Ridge, 
and  he  tried  to  remember  how  Jane  Mason  got  over  from 
Minneola  —  did  he  bring  her  over  the  day  before,  or  was 
she  visiting  at  the  Culpeppers',  or  did  she  come  over 
that  day  ?  It  puzzled  him,  but  he  remembered  well  that 
in  the  Congregational  choir  he  and  Jane  sang  a  duet  in  an 
anthem,  "  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep."  And  he  hummed 
the  old  aria,  a  rather  melancholy  tune,  as  he  sat  on  the  car 
platform  in  Arizona  that  night,  and  her  voice  came  back 
—  a  deep  sweet  contralto  that  took  "  G  "  below  middle  "  C  " 
as  clearly  as  a  tenor,  and  in  her  lower  register  there  was  a 
passion  and  a  fire  that  did  not  blaze  in  the  higher  notes. 
For  those  notes  were  merely  girlish  and  untrained.  That 
June  night  in  '73  was  the  first  night  that  he  and  Jane 
Mason  ever  had  lagged  behind  as  they  walked  up  the  hill 
with  Bob  and  Molly.  And  what  curious  things  stick  in 
the  memory  !  The  man  on  the  rear  of  the  car  remembered 
that  as  they  left  the  business  part  of  Main  Street  behind 
and  walked  up  the  hill,  they  came  to  a  narrow  cross-walk, 
a  single  stone  in  width,  and  that  they  tried  to  walk  upon 
it  together,  and  that  his  limp  made  him  jostle  her,  and 
she  said,  "  We  mustn't  do  that." 

"What?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh  —  you  know  —  walk  on  one  stone.  You  know 
what  it's  a  sign  of.  " 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  87 

"  Do  you  believe  in  signs?"  he  asked.  She  kept  hold  of 
his  arm,  and  kept  him  from  leaving  the  stone.  She  was 
taller  than  he  by  a  head,  and  he  hated  himself  for  it. 
They  managed  to  keep  together  until  they  crossed  the 
street  and  came  into  the  broader  walk.  Then  she  drew  a 
relieved  breath  and  answered :  "  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Some 
times  I  do."  They  were  lagging  far  behind  their  friends, 
and  the  girl  hummed  a  tune,  then  she  said,  "  You  know 
I've  always  believed  in  my  '  Star  light  —  star  bright —  first 
star  I've  seen  to-night,'  just  as  I  believe  in  my  prayers." 
And  she  looked  up  and  said,  "  Oh,  I  haven't  said  it  yet." 
She  picked  out  her  star  and  said  the  rhyme,  closing  with, 
"  I  wish  I  may,  I  wish  I  might,  have  the  wish  I  wish  to 
night." 

And  sitting  on  the  car  end  in  Arizona  thirty  years 
after,  he  tried  to  find  her  star  in  the  firmament  above  him. 
He  was  a  man  in  his  fifties  then,  and  the  night  she  showed 
him  her  star  was  more  than  thirty  years  gone  by.  But  he 
remembered.  We  are  curious  creatures,  we  men,  and  we 
remember  much  more  than  we  pretend  to.  For  our  mothers 
in  many  cases  were  women,  and  we  take  after  them. 

As  Barclay  stood  in  the  door  of  his  car  debating  whether 
or  not  to  go  in,  the  light  from  the  chimney  of  the  sawmill 
on  the  hill  attracted  his  attention,  and  because  he  was  in 
a  mood  for  it,  the  flying  sparks  trailing  across  the  night 
sky  reminded  him  of  the  fireworks  that  Fourth  of  July  in 
1873,  when  he  and  Jane  Mason  and  Bob  and  Molly  spent 
the  day  together,  picnicking  down  in  the  timber  and  coming 
home  to  dance  on  the  platform  under  the  cottonwood-bough 
pavilion  in  the  evening.  It  was  a  riotous  day,  and  Bob  and 
Molly  being  lovers  of  long  acceptance  assumed  a  paternal 
attitude  to  John  and  Jane  that  was  charming  in  the  main, 
but  sometimes  embarrassing.  And  of  all  the  chatter  he 
only  remembered  that  Jane  said  :  "  Think  how  many  years 
these  old  woods  have  been  here — how  many  hundred 
years  —  maybe  when  the  mound-builders  were  here  !  Don't 
you  suppose  that  they  are  used  to  —  to  young  people  — 
oh,  maybe  Indian  lovers,  and  all  that,  and  don't  you  sup* 
pose  the  trees  see  these  young  people  loving  and  marrying, 


88  A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN 

and  growing  old  and  ugly  and  unhappy,  and  that  they 
some  way  feel  that  they  are  just  a  little  tired  of  it  all  ?  " 

If  any  one  replied  to  her,  he  had  no  recollection  of  it, 
for  after  that  he  saw  the  dance  and  heard  the  music,  and 
then  events  seemed  to  slip  along  without  registering  in 
his  memory.  There  must  have  been  the  fifth  and  the 
sixth  of  July  in  18T3,  for  certainly  there  was  the  seventh, 
and  that  was  Sunday;  he  remembered  that  well  enough, 
for  in  the  morning  there  was  a  council  in  his  office  to 
discuss  ways  and  means  for  the  week's  work  in  the 
county-seat  trouble.  Tuesday  was  the  day  which  the  new 
law  designated  as  the  one  when  the  levy  must  be  made 
for  the  court-house  improvements  that  would  hold  the 
county-seat  in  Sycamore  Ridge.  At  four  o'clock,  after  the 
Sunday  council,  John  and  Bob  drove  out  of  Sheriff  Jake 
Dolan's  stable  with  his  best  two-seated  buggy,  and  told 
him  they  would  be  back  from  Minneola  at  midnight  or 
thereabout  after  taking  Jane  Mason  home,  and  the  two 
boys  drove  down  Main  Street  with  the  girls,  waving  to 
every  one  with  their  hats,  while  the  girls  waved  their 
parasols,  and  the  town  smiled  ;  for  though  all  the  world 
loves  a  lover,  in  Sycamore  Ridge  it  has  been  the  custom, 
since  the  days  when  Philemon  Ward  first  took  Miss  Lucy 
out  to  drive,  for  all  the  town  to  jeer  at  lovers  as  they  pass 
down  street  in  buggies  and  carriages  !  And  so  thirty 
years  slipped  from  Barclay  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
his  car  looking  at  the  Arizona  stars.  A  flicker  of  light 
high  up  in  the  sky-line  seemed  to  move.  It  was  the  head 
light  of  a  train  coming  over  the  mountain.  A  switchman 
with  a  lantern  was  passing  near  the  car,  and  Barclay  called 
to  him,  "  Is  that  headlight  No.  2  ?  "  And  when  the  man 
affirmed  Barclay's  theory,  he  asked,  "How  long  does  it 
take  it  to  get  down  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  comes  a-humming,"  replied  the  man.  "  If  she 
doesn't  jump  the  track,  she'll  be  down  in  eight  minutes." 

Inside  the  car  Barclay  heard  a  watch  snap,  and  knew 
that  Lycurgus  Mason  didn't  believe  anything  of  the  kind 
and  proposed  to  get  at  the  facts.  So  Barclay  sat  down  on 
the  platform ;  but  his  mind  went  back  to  the  old  days,  and 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  89 

the  ride  through  the  woods  along  the  Sycamore  that  Sun 
day  night  in  July  came  to  him,  with  all  its  fragrance  and 
stillness  and  sweetness.  He  recalled  that  they  came  into 
the  prairie  just  as  the  meadow-lark  was  crying  its  last 
plaintive  twilight  trill,  and  the  western  sky  was  glowing 
with  a  rim  of  gold  upon  the  tips  of  the  clouds.  The 
beauty  of  the  prairie  and  the  sky  and  the  calm  of  the  even 
ing  entered  into  their  hearts,  and  they  were  silent.  Then 
they  left  the  prairie  and  went  into  the  woods  again,  on 
the  river  road.  And  before  they  came  out  of  that  road 
into  the  upland,  Fate  turned  a  screw  that  changed  the 
lives  of  all  of  them.  For  in  a  turn  of  the  road,  in  a  deep 
cut  made  by  a  ravine,  Gabriel  Carnine,  making  the  last 
stand  for  Minneola,  stepped  into  the  path  and  took  the 
horses  by  the  bridles.  The  shock  that  John  felt  that 
night  when  he  realized  what  had  happened  came  back 
even  across  the  years.  And  as  the  headlight  far  up  in 
the  mountain  above  the  desert  slipped  into  a  tunnel, 
though  it  flashed  out  again  in  a  few  seconds,  while  it  was 
gone,  all  the  details  of  the  kidnapping  of  the  young  people 
in  the  buggy  hurried  across  his  mind.  Even  the  old  anxi 
ety  that  he  felt  lest  Sycamore  Ridge  would  think  him  a 
traitor  to  their  cause,  when  they  should  find  that  he  was 
not  there  to  sign  the  tax  levy  and  save  the  court-house 
and  the  county-seat,  came  back  to  him  as  he  gazed  at 
the  mountain,  waiting  for  the  headlight,  and  he  remem 
bered  how  he  made  a  paper  trail  of  torn  bits  from  a  Con 
gregational  hymn-book,  left  in  Bob's  pocket  from  the 
morning  service,  dropping  the  bits  under  the  buggy  wheels 
in  the  dust  so  that  the  men  from  the  Ridge  would  see  the 
trail  and  follow  the  captives.  In  his  memory  he  saw 
Jake  Dolan,  who  had  followed  the  trail  where  it  led  to 
Carnine's  farm,  come  stumbling  into  the  farm-house  Tues 
day  where  they  were  hidden,  and  John,  in  memory,  heard 
Jake  whisper  that  he  had  left  his  dog  with  the  rescuing 
party  to  lead  the  rescuers  to  him  if  he  was  on  the  right 
trail  and  did  not  return. 

And  then  as  Barclay's  mind  went  back  to  the  long 
Tuesday,  when  he  should  have  been  at  the  Ridge  to  sign 


90  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

the  tax  levy,  the  headlight  flashed  out  of  the  tunnel.  But 
these  were  fading  pictures.  The  one  image  that  was  in 
his  mind — clear  through  all  the  years — was  of  a  wood  and 
a  tree, — a  great,  spreading,  low-boughed,  elm,  near  Car- 
nine's  house  where  the  young  people  were  held  prisoners, 
and  Jane  Mason  sitting  with  her  back  against  the  tree,  and 
lying  on  the  dry  grass  at  her  feet  his  own  slight  figure  ; 
sometimes  he  was  looking  up  at  her  over  his  brow,  and 
sometimes  his  head  rested  on  the  roots  of  the  tree  beside 
her,  and  she  looked  down  at  him  and  they  talked,  and  no 
one  was  near.  For  through  youth  into  middle  life,  and 
into  the  dawn  of  old  age,  That  Day  was  marked  in  his  life. 
The  day  of  the  month  —  he  forgot  which  it  was.  The  day 
of  the  week  —  that  also  left  him,  and  there  came  a  time 
when  he  had  to  figure  back  to  recall  the  year ;  but  for  all 
that,  there  was  a  radiance  in  his  life,  an  hour  of  calm  joy 
that  never  left  him,  and  he  called  it  only  —  That  Day. 
That  Day  is  in  every  heart ;  in  yours,  my  dear  fat  Mr. 
Jones,  and  in  yours,  my  good  dried-up  Mrs.  Smith ;  and 
in  yours,  Mrs.  Goodman,  and  in  yours,  Mr.  Badman ; 
maybe  it  is  upon  the  sea,  or  in  the  woods,  or  among  the 
noises  of  some  great  city  —  but  it  is  That  Day.  And  no 
other  day  of  all  the  thousands  that  have  come  to  you  is 
like  it. 

Why  should  he  remember  the  ugly  farm-yard,  the  hard 
faces  of  the  men,  the  straw-covered  frame  they  called  a 
barn,  and  the  unpainted  house  ?  All  these  things  passed 
by  him  unrecorded,  as  did  the  miserable  fare  of  the  table, 
the  hard  bed  at  night,  and  the  worry  that  must  have 
gnawed  at  his  nerves  to  know  that  perhaps  the  town  was 
thinking  him  false  to  it,  or  that  his  mother,  guessing  the 
truth,  was  in  pain  with  terror,  or  to  feel  that  a  rescuing 
party  coming  at  the  wrong  time  would  bring  on  a  fight 
in  which  the  girls  would  be  killed.  Only  the  picture  of 
Jane  Mason,  fine  and  lithe  and  strong,  with  the  pink 
cheeks  of  twenty,  and  the  soft  curves  of  childhood  still 
playing  about  her  chin  and  throat  as  he  saw  it  from  the 
ground  at  her  feet,  —  that  picture  was  etched  into  his 
heart,  and  with  it  the  recollection  of  her  eyes  when  she 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  91 

"  John,  —  you  don't  think  I  —  I  knew  of  this  —  be 
forehand,  do  you  ?  "  Just  that  sentence  —  those  were  the 
only  words  left  in  his  memory  of  a  day's  happiness.  And 
he  never  heard  u,  locust  whirring  in  a  tree  that  it  did  not 
bring  back  the  memory  of  the  spreading  tree  and  the  touch 

—  the  soft,  quick,  shy  touch  of  her  fingers  in  his  hair,  and 
the  fire  that  was  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  in  the  dusk  of  Tuesday  evening  that  Jake  Dolan's 
dog  came  into  the  yard  where  the  captives  were,  and  Jake 
disowned  him,  and  joined  the  men  who  stoned  the  faithful 
creature  out  to  the  main  road.  But  the  prisoners  knew 
that  their  rescuers  would  follow  the  dog,  so  at  supper  the 
three  men  from  the  Ridge  sat  together  on  a  bench  at  the 
table  while  Mrs.  Carnine  and  the  girls  waited  on  the  men 

—  after   the   fashion   of    country   places   in   those   days. 
Dolan  managed  to  say  under  his  breath  to  Barclay,  "  It's 
all  right  —  but  the  girls  must  stay  in  the  house  to-night." 
And  John  knew  that  if  he  and  Bob  escaped  with  horses 
before  ten  o'clock,  they  could  reach  the  Ridge  in  time  to 
sign  the  levy  before   midnight.     Darkness  fell  at  eight, 
and  a  screech-owl  in  the  wood  complained  to  the  night. 
Dolan  rose  and  stretched  and  yawned,  and  then  began  to 
talk  of  going  to  bed,  and  Gabriel  Carnine,  whose  turn  it 
was  to  sleep  because  he  had  been  up  two  nights,  shuffled 
off  to  the  straw-covered  stable  to  lie  down  with  the  Texan 
who  was  his  bunk  mate,  leaving  half  a  dozen  men  to  guard 
the  prisoners.     An  hour  later  the  screech-owl  in  the  wood 
murmured  again,  this  time  much  closer,  and  Dolan  rose  and 
took  off  his  hat  and  threw  it  in  the  straw  beside  him.     He 
was  looking  at  the  time  anxiously  toward  the  wood.     But 
the  next  moment  from  behind  the  barn  in  the  opposite 
direction  something  attracted  them.     It  was  a  glare  of 
light,  and  the  guards  noticed  it  at  the  same  time.     A  last 
year's  straw  stack  next  to  the  barn  was  afire.     Jane  Mason 
was  standing  in  the  back  door  of  the  house,  and  in  the 
hurried  blur  of  moving  events  John  divined  that  she  had 
slipped  out  and  fired  the  stack.     In  an  instant  there  was 
confusion.     The  men  were  on  their  feet.     They  must  fight 
fire,  or  the  barn  would  go.     Dolan  ran  with  the  men  to  the 


92  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

straw  stack.  "  We'll  help  you,"  he  cried.  "  I'll  wake 
Gabe."  There  was  hurrying  for  water  pails.  The  women 
appeared,  crying  shrilly,  and  in  the  glare  that  reddened 
the  sky  the  yard  seemed  full  of  mad  men  racing  heedlessly. 

"  John,"  whispered  Jane,  coming  up  to  him  as  he  drew 
water  from  the  well,  "let  me  do  this.  There  are  two 
horses  in  the  pasture.  You  and  Bob  go  —  fly  —  fly." 
The  Texan  came  running  from  the  barn,  which  was  begin 
ning  to  blaze.  Dolan  and  Carnine  still  were  in  it.  Then 
from  the  wood  back  of  the  camp  fifty  men  appeared,  riding 
at  a  gallop.  Lige  Bemis  and  General  Ward  rode  in  front 
of  the  troop  of  horsemen.  Carnine  was  still  in  the  burn 
ing  barn  asleep,  and  there  was  no  leader  to  give  command 
to  the  dazed  guards.  Ward  and  Bemis  ran  up,  motioning 
the  men  back,  and  Ward  cried,  "  Shall  we  help  you  save 
your  stock  and  barn,  or  must  we  fight  ?  "  It  was  addressed 
to  the  crowd,  but  before  they  could  answer,  Dolan 
stumbled  out  of  the  barn  through  the  smoke  and  flames 
crying,  "  Boys, —  boys,  —  I  can't  find  him."  He  saw  the 
rescuing  party  and  shouted,  "  Boys,  —  Gabe's  in  there 
asleep  and  I  can't  find  him."  The  wind  had  suddenly 
veered,  and  the  crackling  flames  had  reached  the  straw 
roof  of  the  barn.  The  fire  was  gaining  headway,  and  the 
three  buckets  that  were  coming  from  the  well  had  no 
effect  on  it.  As  the  last  horse  was  pulled  out  of  the  door, 
one  side  of  the  straw  wall  of  the  barn  fell  away  on  fire  and 
showed  Gabriel  Carnine  sleeping  not  ten  feet  from  the 
flames.  Lige  Bemis  soused  his  handkerchief  in  water,  tied 
it  over  his  mouth,  and  ran  in.  He  grabbed  the  sleeping 
man  and  dragged  him  through  the  flames ;  but  both  were 
afire  as  they  came  into  the  open. 

Now  in  this  story  Elijah  Westlake  Bemis  is  not  shown 
often  in  a  heroic  light.  Yet  he  had  in  his  being  the 
making  of  a  hero,  for  he  was  brave.  And  heroism,  after 
all,  is  only  effective  reliance  on  some  virtue  in  a  crisis,  in 
spite  of  temptations  to  do  the  easy  excusable  thing.  And 
when  Lige  Bemis  sneaks  through  this  story  in  unlovely 
guise,  remember  that  he  has  a  virtue  that  once  exalted 
even  him. 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  93 

"  Gabe  Carnine,"  said  Ward,  as  the  barn  fell  and  there 
was  nothing  more  to  fear,  "  we  didn't  fire  your  haystack ; 
I  give  you  my  word  on  that.  But  we  are  going  to  take 
these  boys  home  now.  And  you  better  let  us  alone." 

That  John  Barclay  remembered,  and  then  he  remem 
bered  being  in  the  front  yard  of  the  farm-house  a  moment 
—  alone  with  Jane  Mason,  his  bridle  rein  over  his  arm. 
Her  hair  was  down,  and  she  looked  wild  and  beautiful. 
The  straw  was  still  burning  back  of  the  house,  and  the 
glow  was  everywhere.  He  always  remembered  that  she 
held  his  hand  and  would  not  let  him  go,  and  there  two 
memories  are  different ;  for  she  always  maintained  that  he 
did,  right  there  and  then,  and  he  recollected  that  as  he 
mounted  his  horse  he  tried  to  kiss  her  arid  failed.  Per 
haps  both  are  right  —  who  knows  ?  But  both  agree  that 
as  he  sat  there  an  instant  on  his  horse,  she  threw  kisses  at 
him  and  he  threw  them  back.  And  when  the  men  rode 
away,  she  stood  in  the  road,  and  he  could  see  her  in  the 
light  of  the  waning  fire,  and  thirty  years  passed  and  still 
he  saw  her. 

As  the  headlight  of  the  train  lit  up  the  cinder  yard, 
and  brought  the  glint  of  the  rails  out  of  the  darkness, 
John  Barclay,  a  thousand  miles  away  and  thirty  years 
after,  fancied  he  could  see  her  there  in  the  railroad  yards 
beside  him  waving  her  hands  at  him,  smiling  at  him  with 
the  new-found  joy  in  her  face.  For  there  is  no  difference 
between  fifty-three  and  twenty-three  when  men  are  in 
love,  and  if  they  are  in  love  with  the  same  woman  in  both 
years,  her  face  will  never  change,  her  smile  will  always 
seem  the  same.  And  to  John  Barclay  there  on  the  rear 
platform  of  the  car,  with  the  crash  of  the  great  train  in 
his  ears,  the  same  face  looked  out  of  the  night  at  him  that 
he  saw  back  in  his  twenties,  and  he  knew  that  the  same 
prayer  to  the  same  God  would  go  up  that  night  for  him 
that  went  up  from  the  same  lips  so  long  ago.  The  man 
on  the  car  platform  rose  from  his  chair,  and  went  into  the 
car. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  Lycurgus  Mason  as  the  old  man 
reached  for  his  watch,  "  how  about  it  ?  " 


94  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Lycurgus  replied  as  he  put  it  back  in  his  pocket,  "  Just 
seven  minutes  and  a  half.  She's  covered  a  lot  of  track  in 
those  seven  minutes  !  " 

And  John  Barclay  looked  back  over  the  years,  and  saw 
a  boy  riding  like  the  wind  through  the  night,  changing 
horses  every  half -hour,  and  trying  to  tell  time  from  his 
watch  by  a  rising  moon,  but  the  moon  was  blown  with 
clouds  like  a  woman's  hair,  and  he  could  not  see  the  hands 
on  the  watch  face.  So  as  he  looked  at  the  old  man  sit 
ting  crooked  over  in  the  great  leather  chair,  John  Barclay 
only  grunted,  "Yes — she's  covered  a  long  stretch  of 
country  in  those  seven  minutes."  And  he  picked  the 
Biography  off  the  table  and  read  to  himself  :  "  I  some 
times  think  that  only  that  part  of  the  soul  that  loves  is 
saved.  The  rest  is  dross  and  perishes  in  the  fire.  Whether 
the  love  be  the  love  of  woman  or  the  love  of  kind,  or  the 
love  of  God  that  embraces  all,  it  matters  not.  That  sanc 
tifies  ;  that  purifies  —  that  marks  the  way  of  the  only  sal 
vation  the  soul  can  know,  and  he  who  does  not  love  with 
the  fervour  of  a  passionate  heart  some  of  God's  creatures, 
cannot  love  God,  and  not  loving  Him,  is  lost  in  spite  of  all 
his  prayers,  in  spite  of  all  his  aspirations.  Therefore,  if 
you  would  live  you  must  love,  for  when  love  dies  the  soul 
shrivels.  And  if  God  takes  what  you  love — love  on  ;  for 
only  love  will  make  you  immortal,  only  love  will  cheat 
death  of  its  victory." 

And  looking  at  Lycurgus  Mason  fidgeting  in  his  chair, 
John  Barclay  wondered  when  he  would  die  the  kind  of  a 
death  that  had  come  to  the  little  old  man  before  him,  and 
then  he  felt  the  car  move  under  him,  and  knew  they  were 
going  back  to  Sycamore  Ridge. 

"  Day  after  to-morrow,"  said  Barclay,  meditatively,  as  he 
heard  the  first  faint  screaming  of  the  heavily  laden  wheels 
under  him,  "  day  after  to-morrow,  Daddy  Mason,  we  will 
be  home  with  Colonel  Culpepper  and  his  large  white 
plumes. " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THIS  chapter  might  have  had  in  it  "  all  the  quality, 
pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war  "  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  matters  that  came  up  for  discussion  at 
the  meeting  of  the  Garrison  County  Old  Settlers'  Associa 
tion  this  year  of  our  Lord  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Eight. 
For  until  that  meeting  the  legend  of  the  last  hour  of  the 
County-seat  War  of  '73  had  flourished  unmolested ;  but 
there  General  Philemon  Ward  rose  and  laid  an  axe  at  the 
root  of  the  legend,  and  while  of  course  he  did  not  destroy 
it  entirely,  he  left  it  scarred  and  withered  on  one  side  and 
therefore  entirely  unfitted  for  historical  purposes.  It 
seems  that  Gabriel  Carnine  was  assigned  by  President 
John  Barclay  of  the  Association  to  prepare  and  read  a  paper 
on  "  The  Rise,  Decline,  and  Fall  of  Minneola."  Certainly 
that  was  a  proper  subject  considering  the  fact  that  corn 
has  been  growing  over  the  site  of  Minneola  for  twenty 
years.  And  surely  Gabriel  Carnine,  whose  black  beard 
has  whitened  in  thirty  years'  faithful  service  to  Sycamore 
Ridge,  whose  wife  lies  buried  on  the  Hill,  and  whose  chil 
dren  read  the  Sycamore  Ridge  Banner  in  the  uttermost 
parts  of  the  earth,  —  surely  Gabriel  Carnine  might  have 
been  trusted  to  tell  the  truth  of  the  conflict  waged  be 
tween  the  towns  a  generation  ago.  But  men  have  curi 
ous  works  in  them,  and  unless  one  has  that  faith  in  God 
that  gives  him  unbounded  faith  in  the  goodness  of  man, 
one  should  not  open  men  up  in  the  back  and  watch  the 
wheels  go  'round.  For  though  men  are  good,  and  in  the 
long  run  what  they  do  is  God's  work  and  is  therefore  ac 
ceptable,  no  man  is  perfect.  There  goes  Lige  Bemis  past 
the  post-office,  now,  for  instance ;  when  he  was  in  the  legis 
lature  in  the  late  sixties,  every  one  knows  that  Minneola 
raised  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  cash  and  offered  it  to 
Lige  if  he  would  pretend  to  be  sick  and  quit  work  on  the 

95 


96  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

Sycamore  Ridge  county-seat  bill.  He  could  have  fooled 
us,  and  could  have  taken  the  money,  which  was  certainly 
more  than  he  could  expect  to  get  from  Sycamore  Ridge. 
Did  he  take  it?  Not  at  all.  A  million  would  not  have 
tempted  him.  He  was  in  that  game;  yet  ten  days  after 
he  refused  the  offer  of  Minneola,  he  tried  to  blackmail  his 
United  States  senator  out  of  fifty  dollars,  and  sold  his  vote 
to  a  candidate  for  state  printer  for  one  hundred  dollars  and 
flashed  the  bill  around  Sycamore  Ridge  proudly  for  a  week 
before  spending  it. 

So  Gabriel  Carnine  must  not  be  blamed  if  in  that  paper 
on  Minneola,  before  the  Old  Settlers'  Association,  he  let 
out  the  pent-up  wrath  of  thirty  years ;  and  also  if  in  the 
discussion  General  Ward  unsealed  his  lips  for  the  first 
time  and  blighted  the  myth  that  told  how  a  hundred  Min 
neola  men  had  captured  the  court-house  yard  on  the  night 
that  John  Barclay  and  Bob  Hendricks  rode  home  from  their 
captivity  to  sign  the  tax  levy.  Legend  has  always  said 
that  Lige  Bemis,  riding  half  a  mile  ahead  of  the  others  that 
night,  came  to  the  courtyard ;  found  it  guarded  by  Min 
neola  men,  rode  back,  met  John  and  Bob  and  the  general 
crossing  the  bridge  over  the  old  ford  of  the  Sycamore,  and 
told  them  that  they  could  not  get  into  the  court-house  until 
the  men  came  up  who  had  ridden  out  to  rescue  the  com 
missioners, —  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  behind  the 
others,  —  and  that  even  then  there  must  be  a  fight  of 
doubtful  issue  ;  and  further  that  it  was  after  eleven  o'clock, 
and  soon  would  be  too  late  to  sign  the  levy.  The  forty 
thousand  people  in  Garrison  County  have  believed  for 
thirty  years  that  finding  the  court-house  yard  in  posses 
sion  of  the  enemy,  Bemis  suggested  going  through  the 
cave  by  the  Barclays'  home,  which  had  its  west  opening  in 
the  wall  of  the  basement  of  the  court-house ;  and  further 
more,  tradition  has  said  that  Bemis  led  John  and  Bob 
through  the  cave,  and  with  crowbars  and  hammers  they 
made  a  man-sized  hole  in  the  wall,  crawled  through  it, 
mounted  the  basement  stairs,  unlocked  the  commissioners' 
room,  held  their  meeting  in  darkness,  and  five  minutes 
before  twelve  o'clock  astonished  the  invading  forces  by 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  97 

lighting  a  lamp  in  their  room,  signing  the  levy  that  Bemis, 
as  county  attorney,  had  prepared  the  Sunday  before,  and 
slipping  with  it  into  the  basement,  through  the  cave  and 
back  to  the  troop  of  horsemen  as  they  were  jogging 
across  the  bridge  on  their  way  back  from  Carnine's  farm. 
And  here  are  the  marks  of  General  Ward's  axe  — 
verified  by  Gabriel  Carnine  :  first,  that  there  were  no 
Minneola  invaders  in  possession  of  the  court-house,  but 
only  a  dozen  visitors  loafing  about  town  that  night  to 
watch  developments ;  second,  that  the  regular  pickets  were 
out  as  usual,  and  an  invading  force  could  not  have  stolen 
in ;  and  third,  that  Bemis  knew  it,  but  as  his  political  for 
tunes  were  low,  he  rode  ahead  of  the  others,  hatched  up 
the  cock-and-bull  story  about  the  guarded  court-house, 
and  persuaded  the  boys  to  let  him  lead  them  into  a  roman 
tic  adventure  that  would  sound  well  in  the  campaign  and 
help  to  insure  his  reelection  the  following  year.  In  view 
of  the  general's  remarks  and  Gabriel  Carnine's  corrobora 
tive  statement,  and  in  view  of  the  bitterness  with  which 
Carnine  assailed  the  whole  Sycamore  Ridge  campaign,  how 
can  a  truthful  chronicler  use  the  episode  at  all?  History 
is  a  fickle  goddess,  and  perhaps  Pontius  Pilate,  being 
human  and  used  to  human  errors  and  human  weakness, 
is  not  so  much  to  blame  for  asking,  "  What  is  truth?  "  and 
then  turning  away  before  he  had  the  answer. 

Walking  home  from  the  meeting  through  Mary  Barclay- 
Park,  Barclay's  mind  wandered  back  to  the  days  when  he 
won  his  first  important  lawsuit  —  the  suit  brought  by  Min 
neola  to  prevent  the  collection  of  taxes  under  the  midnight 
levy  to  build  the  court-house.  It  was  that  lawsuit  which 
brought  him  to  the  attention  of  the  legal  department  of  the 
Fifth  Parallel  Railroad  Company,  and  his  employment  by 
that  company  to  defeat  the  bonds  of  its  narrow-gauged  com 
petitor,  that  was  seeking  entrance  into  Garrison  County, 
was  the  beginning  of  his  career.  And  in  that  fight  to- 
defeat  the  narrow-gauged  railroad,  the  people  of  Garrison 
County  learned  something  of  Barclay  as  well.  He  and 
Bemis  went  over  the  county  together, — the  little  fox  and 
the  old  coyote,  the  people  called  them,  —  and  where  men 


98  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

were  for  sale,  Bemis  bought  them,  and  where  they  were 
timid,  John  threatened  them,  and  where  they  were  neither, 
both  John  and  Bemis  fought  with  a  ferocity  that  made 
men  hate  but  respect  the  pair.  And  so  though  the  Fifth 
Parallel  Railroad  never  came  to  the  Ridge,  its  successor, 
the  Corn  Belt  Road,  did  come,  and  in  '74  John  spoke  in 
every  schoolhouse  in  the  county,  urging  the  people  to  vote 
the  bonds  for  the  Corn  Belt  Road,  and  his  employment  as 
local  attorney  for  the  company  marked  his  first  step  into 
the  field  of  state  politics.  For  it  gave  him  a  railroad  pass, 
and  brought  him  into  relations  with  the  men  who  manipu 
lated  state  affairs ;  also  it  made  him  a  silent  partner  of  Lige 
Bemis  in  Garrison  County  politics. 

But  even  when  he  was  county  commissioner,  less  than 
two  dozen  years  old,  he  was  a  force  in  Sycamore  Ridge, 
and  there  were  days  when  he  had  four  or  five  thousand 
dollars  to  his  credit  in  General  Hendricks'  bank.  The 
general  used  to  look  over  the  daily  balances  and  stroke 
his  iron-gray  beard  and  say :  "  Robert,  John  is  doing 
well  to-day.  Son,  I  wish  you  had  the  acquisitive  faculty. 
Why  don't  you  invest  something  and  make  something?" 
But  Bob  Hendricks  was  content  to  do  his  work  in  the 
bank,  and  read  at  home  one  night  and  slip  over  to  the  Cul- 
peppers'  the  next  night,  and  so  long  as  the  boy  was  steady 
and  industrious  and  careful,  his  father  had  no  real  cause 
for  complaint,  and  he  knew  it.  But  the  town  knew  that 
John  was  getting  on  in  the  world.  He  owned  half  of 
Culpepper's  second  addition,  and  his  interest  in  College 
Heights  was  clear;  he  never  dealt  in  equities,  but  paid 
cash  and  gave  warranty  deeds  for  what  he  sold.  It  was 
believed  around  the  Ridge  that  he  could  "  clean  up,"  for 
fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars,  and  when  he  called 
Mrs.  Mason  of  the  Mason  House,  Minneola,  into  the  dining 
room  one  afternoon  to  talk  over  a  little  matter  with  her, 
he  found  her  most  willing.  It  was  a  short  session.  After 
listening  and  punctuating  his  remarks  with  "  of  courses  " 
and  "  yeses  "  and  "  so's,"  Mrs.  Mason's  reply  was  :  — 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Barclay," — the  Mr.  Barclay  he  remem 
bered  as  the  only  time  in  his  life  he  ever  had  it  from  her,  — 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  99 

"  of  course,  Mr.  Barclay,  that  is  a  matter  rather  for  you 
and  Mr.  Mason  to  settle.  You  know,"  she  added,  folding 
her  hands  across  her  ample  waist,  "  Mr.  Mason  is  the  head 
of  the  house  !  "  Then  she  lifted  her  voice,  perhaps  fear 
ing  that  matters  might  be  delayed.  "  Oh,  pa !  "  she 
cried.  "  Pa !  Come  in  here,  please.  There's  a  gentle 
man  to  see  you." 

Lycurgus  Mason  came  in  with  a  tea  towel  in  his  hands 
and  an  apron  on.  He  heard  John  through  in  a  dazed 
way,  his  hollow  eyes  blinking  with  evident  uncertainty  as 
to  what  was  expected  of  him.  When  Barclay  was  through, 
the  father  looked  at  the  mother  for  his  cue,  and  did  not 
speak  for  a  moment.  Then  he  faltered :  "  Why,  yes,  —  yes, 
—  I  see  !  Well,  ma,  what  —  "  And  at  the  cloud  on  her 
brow  Lycurgus  hesitated  again,  and  rolled  his  apron  about 
his  hands  nervously  and  finally  said,  "  Oh  —  well  —  what 
ever  you  and  her  ma  think  will  be  all  right  with  me,  I 
guess."  And  having  been  dismissed  telepathically,  Lycur 
gus  hurried  back  to  his  work. 

It  was  when  John  Barclay  was  elected  President  of  the 
Corn  Belt  Railway,  in  the  early  nineties,  that  Lycurgus 
told  McHurdie  and  Ward  and  Culpepper  and  Frye,  as  the 
graybeards  wagged  around  the  big  brown  stove  in  the 
harness  shop  one  winter  day :  "  You  know  ma,  she  never 
saw  much  in  him,  and  when  I  came  in  the  room  she  was 
about  to  tell  him  he  couldn't  have  her.  Now,  isn't  that 
like  a  woman  ?  —  no  sense  about  men.  But  I  says:  '  Ma, 
John  Barclay's  got  good  blood  in  him.  His  grandpa  died 
worth  a  million,  —  and  that  was  a  pile  of  money  for  them 
days; '  so  I  says,  'If  Jane  Mason  wants  him,  ma,'  I  says, 
'  let  her  have  him.  Remember  what  a  fuss  your  folks 
made  over  me  getting  you,'  I  says;  'and  see  how  it's 
turned  out.'  Then  I  turned  to  John  —  I  can  see  the 
little  chap  now  a-standing  there  with  his  dicky  hat  in  his 
hand  and  his  pipe-stem  legs  no  bigger  than  his  cane,  and 
his  gray  eyes  lookin'  as  wistful  as  a  dog's  when  you  got  a 
bone  in  your  hand,  and  I  says,  '  Take  her  along,  John ; 
take  her  along  and  good  luck  go  with  you,'  I  says;  'but,' 
I  says,  '  John  Barclay,  I  want  you  always  to  remember 


100  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Jane  Mason  has  got  a  father.'  Just  that  way  I  says.  I 
tell  you,  gentlemen,  there's  nothing  like  having  a  wife  that 
respects  you."  The  crowd  in  the  harness  shop  wagged 
their  heads,  and  Lycurgus  went  on :  "  Now,  they  ain't  many 
women  that  would  just  let  a  man  stand  up  like  that  and, 
as  you  may  say,  give  her  daughter  right  away  under  her 
nose.  But  my  wife,  she's  been  well  trained." 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  Watts  McHurdie's  creaking 
lever  was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  silence.  Then 
Watts,  who  had  been  sewing  away  at  his  work  with  wav 
ing  arms,  spoke,  after  clearing  his  throat,  "  I've  heard 
many  say  that  she  was  sich."  And  the  old  man  cackled, 
and  it  became  a  saying  among  them  and  in  the  town. 

One  who  goes  back  over  the  fifty  years  that  have  passed 
since  Sycamore  Ridge  became  a  local  habitation  and  a 
name  finds  it  difficult  to  realize  that  one-third  of  its  life 
was  passed  before  the  panic  of  '73,  which  closed  the  Hen- 
dricks'  bank.  For  those  first  nineteen  years  passed  as  the 
life  of  a  child  passes,  so  that  they  seem  only  sketched  in ; 
yet  to  those  who  lived  at  all,  to  those  like  Watts  McHur- 
die  and  Philemon  Ward,  who  now  pass  their  happiest  mo 
ments  mooning  over  tilted  headstones  in  the  cemetery  on 
the  Hill,  those  first  nineteen  years  seem  the  longest  and  the 
best.  And  that  fateful  year  of  '73  to  them  seems  the  most 
portentous.  For  then,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  they 
realized  the  cruel  uncertainty  of  the  struggle  for  exist 
ence.  With  the  terrible  drouth  of  '60  this  realization  did 
not  come ;  for  the  town  was  young,  and  the  people  were 
young ;  only  Ezra  Lane  was  a  graybeard  in  all  the  town 
in  the  sixties ;  and  youth  is  so  sure ;  there  is  no  hazard 
under  thirty.  In  the  war  they  fought  and  marched  and 
sang  and  starved  and  died,  and  were  still  young.  But 
when  the  financial  panic  of  '73  spread  its  dread  and  its 
trouble  over  the  land,  youth  in  Sycamore  Ridge  was  gone  ; 
it  was  manhood  that  faced  these  things  in  the  Ridge,  and 
manhood  had  cares,  had  given  hostages  to  fortune,  and  life 
was  serious  and  hard ;  and  big  on  the  horizon  was  the  fear 
of  failure.  General  Hendricks  swayed  in  the  panic  of  '73  ; 
and  the  tune  marked  him,  took  the  best  of  the  light  from 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  101 

his  eye,  and  put  the  slightest  perceptible  hobble  on  his  feet. 
To  Martin  Culpepper  and  Watts  McHurdie  and  Philemon 
Ward  and  Jacob  Dolan  and  Oscar  Fernald,  the  panic 
came  in  their,  late  thirties  and  early  forties,  a  flash  of 
lightning  that  prophesied  the  coming  of  the  storm  and 
stress  of  an  inexorable  fate. 

The  wedding  of  John  Barclay  and  Jane  Mason  occurred 
in  September,  1878,  two  days  after  he  had  stood  on  the 
high  stone  steps  of  the  Exchange  National  Bank  and 
made  a  speech  to  the  crowd,  telling  them  he  was  the 
largest  depositor  in  the  bank,  and  begging  them  to  stop 
the  run.  But  the  run  did  not  stop,  and  the  day  before 
John's  wedding  the  bank  did  not  open  ;  the  short  crop 
and  the  panic  in  the  East  were  more  than  Garrison  County 
people  could  stand.  But  all  the  first  day  of  the  bank's 
closing  and  all  the  next  day  John  worked  among  the 
people,  reassuring  them.  $o  that  it  was  five  o'clock  in 
the  evening  before  he  could  start  to  Minneola  for  his 
wedding. 

And  such  a  wedding  !  One  would  say  that  when  hard 
times  were  staring  every  one  in  the  face,  social  forms 
would  be  observed  most  simply.  But  one  would  say  so 
without  reckoning  with  Mrs.  Lycurgus  Mason.  As  the 

§room  and  the  bridesmaid  and  best  man  rode  up  from 
ycamore  Valley,  two  miles  from  Minneola,  in  the  early 
falling  dusk  that  night,  the  Mason  House  loomed  through 
the  darkness,  lighted  up  like  a  steamboat.  "  You'll  have 
to  move  along,  John,"  said  Bob  Hendricks ;  "  I  think  I 
heard  her  whistle." 

On  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  hotel  they  met  Mrs. 
Mason  in  her  black  silk  with  a  hemstitched  linen  apron 
over  it.  She  ushered  them  into  the  house,  took  them  to 
their  rooms,  and  whirled  John  around  on  a  pivot,  it 
seemed  to  him,  with  her  interminable  directions.  His 
mother,  who  had  come  over  to  Minneola  the  day  before, 
came  to  his  room  and  quieted  her  son,  and  as  he  got 
ready  for  what  he  called  the  "  ordeal,"  he  could  hear  Mrs. 
Mason  swinging  doors  below  stairs,  walking  on  her  heels 
through  the  house,  receiving  belated  guests  from  Syca- 


102  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

more  Ridge  and  the  country,  —  for  the  whole  county  had 
been  invited,  —  and  he  heard  her  carrying  out  a  dog  that 
had  sneaked  into  the  dining  room. 

The  groom  missed  the  bride,  and  as  he  was  tying  his 
necktie,  —  which  reminded  him  of  General  Ward  by  its 
whiteness,  —  he  wondered  why  she  did  not  come  to  him. 
He  did  not  know  that  she  was  a  prisoner  in  her  room, 
while  all  the  young  girls  in  Sycamore  Ridge  and  Min- 
neola  were  looking  for  pins  and  hooking  her  up  and  step 
ping  on  each  other's  skirts.  For  one  wedding  is  like  all 
weddings  —  whether  it  be  in  the  Mason  House,  Minneola, 
or  in  Buckingham  Palace.  And  some  there  are  who 
marry  for  love  in  Minneola,  and  some  for  money,  and 
some  for  a  home,  and  some  for  Heaven  only  knows  what, 
just  as  they  do  in  the  chateaux  and  palaces  and  mansions. 
And  the  groom  is  nobody  and  the  bride  is  everything,  as 
it  was  in  the  beginning  and  as  it  shall  be  ever  after. 
Probably  poor  Adam  had  to  stand  behind  a  tree  neg 
lected  and  alone,  while  Lilith  and  girls  from  the  land  of 
Nod  bedecked  Eve  for  the  festivities.  Men  are  not  made 
for  ceremonies.  And  so  at  all  the  formal  occasions  of 
this  life  —  whether  it  be  among  the  great  or  among  the 
lowly,  in  the  East  or  the  West,  at  weddings,  christenings, 
and  funerals  —  man  hides  in  shame  and  leaves  the  affairs 
to  woman,  who  leads  him  as  an  ox,  even  a  muzzled  ox,  that 
treadeth  out  the  corn.  "  The  doomed  man,"  whispered 
John  to  Bob  as  the  two  in  their  black  clothes  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  stair  that  led  into  the  parlour  of  the  Mason 
House  that  night,  waiting  for  the  wedding  march  to  begin 
on  the  cabinet  organ,  "  ate  a  hearty  supper,  consisting  of 
beefsteak  and  eggs,  and  after  shaking  hands  with  his 
friends  he  mounted  the  gallows  with  a  firm  step !  " 

Then  he  heard  the  thud  of  the  music  book  on  the  or 
gan,  the  creak  of  the  treadle,  —  and  when  he  returned 
to  consciousness  he  was  Mrs.  Mason's  son-in-law,  and 
proud  of  it.  And  she,  —  bless  her  heart  and  the  hearts  of 
all  good  women  who  give  up  the  joy  of  their  lives  to  us 
poor  unworthy  creatures,  —  she  stood  by  the  wax-flower 
wreath  under  the  glass  case  on  the  whatnot  in  the  corner, 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  103 

and  wept  into  her  real  lace  handkerchief,  and  wished 
with  all  the  earnestness  of  her  soul  that  she  could  think 
of  some  way  to  let  John  know  that  his  trousers  leg  was 
wrinkled  over  .his  left  shoe  top.  But  she  could  not  solve 
the  problem,  so  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  consolation  of 
her  tears.  Yet  it  should  be  set  down  to  her  credit  that 
when  the  preacher's  amen  was  said,  hers  was  the  first  head 
up,  and  while  the  others  were  rushing  for  the  happy  pair 
she  was  in  the  kitchen  with  her  apron  on  dishing  up  the 
wedding  supper.  Well  might  the  Sycamore  Ridge  Weekly 
Banner  declare  that  the  "  tables  groaned  with  good  things." 
There  were  not  merely  a  little  piddling  dish  of  salad,  a  bite 
of  cake,  and  a  dab  of  ice-cream.  There  were  turkey  and 
potatoes  and  vegetables  and  fruit  and  bread  and  cake  and 
pudding  and  pie —  four  kinds  of  pie,  mark  you — and  pre 
serves,  and  "  Won't  you  please,  Mrs.  Culpepper,  try  some 
of  that  piccalilli  ?  "  and  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Ward,  if  you  just  would 
have  a  slice  of  that  fruit  cake,"  and  "  Now,  General,  —  a 
little  more  of  the  gravy  for  that  turkey  dressing — it  is 
such  a  long  ride  home, "  or  "  Colonel,  I  know  you  like  corn 
bread,  and  I  made  this  myself  as  a  special  compliment  to 
Virginia." 

And  through  it  all  the  bride  sat  watching  the  door  — 
looking  always  through  the  crowd  for  some  one.  Her 
face  was  anxious  and  her  heart  was  clouded,  and  when  the 
guests  had  gone  and  the  house  was  empty,  she  left  her 
husband  and  slipped  out  of  the  back  door.  There,  after 
the  glare  of  the  lamps  had  left  her  eyes,  she  saw  a  little 
man  walking  with  his  head  down,  out  near  the  barn,  and 
she  ran  to  him  and  threw  her  arms  about  him  and  kissed 
him,  and  when  she  led  Lycurgus  Mason,  who  was  all 
washed  and  dressed,  back  through  the  kitchen  to  her 
husband,  John  saw  that  the  man's  eyelids  were  red,  and 
that  on  the  starched  cuffs  were  the  marks  of  tears.  For 
to  him  she  was  only  his  little  girl,  and  John  afterward 
knew  that  she  was  the  only  friend  he  had  in  the  world. 
"  Oh,  father,  why  didn't  you  come  in  ?  "  cried  the  daughter. 
"  I  missed  you  so  !  "  The  man  blinked  a  moment  at  the 
lights  and  looked  toward  his  wife,  who  was  busy  at  a  table, 


104  A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN 

as  he  said  :  "  Who  ?  Me  ?  "  and  then  added  :  "  I  was  just 
lookin'  after  their  horses.  I  was  coming  in  pretty  soon. 
You  oughtn't  to  bother  about  me.  Well,  John,"  he  smiled, 
as  he  put  out  his  hand,  "the  seegars  seems  to  be  on  you 
—  as  the  feller  says."  And  John  put  his  arm  about 
Lycurgus  Mason,  as  they  walked  out  of  the  kitchen,  and 
Jane  reached  for  her  gingham  apron.  Then  life  began 
for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Barclay  in  earnest. 


CHAPTER   IX 

FORTY  thousand  words  —  and  that  is  the  number  we 
have  piled  up  in  this  story  —  is  a  large  number  of  words  to 
string  together  without  a  heroine.  That  is  almost  as  bad 
as  the  dictionary,  in  which  He  and  She  are  always  hun 
dreds  oi  pages  apart  and  never  meet, — not  even  in  the 
"  Z's  "  at  the  end,  —  which  is  why  the  dictionary  is  so  un 
popular,  perhaps.  But  this  is  the  story  of  a  man,  and 
naturally  it  must  have  many  heroines.  For  you  know 
men  —  they  are  all  alike !  First,  Mrs.  Mary  Barclay  was 
a  heroine — you  saw  her  face,  strong  and  clean  and  sharply 
chiselled  with  a  great  purpose ;  then  Miss  Lucy  —  black- 
eyed,  red-cheeked,  slender  little  Miss  Lucy — was  a  heroine, 
but  she  married  General  Ward ;  and  then  Ellen  Culpep- 
per  was  a  heroine,  but  she  fluttered  out  of  the  book  into 
the  sunlight,  and  was  gone ;  and  then  came  Jane  Mason, 

—  and  you  have  seen  her  girlish  beauty,  and  you  will  see 
it  develop  into  gentle  womanhood ;  but  the  real  heroine, 

—  of  the  real  story,  —  you  have  not  seen  her  face.     You 
have  heard  her  name,  and  have  seen  her  moving  through 
these  pages  with  her  back  consciously  turned  to  you  —  for 
being  a  shy  minx,  she  had  no  desire  to  intrude  until  she 
was  properly  introduced.     And  now  we  will   whirl   her 
around  that  you  may  have  a  good  look  at  her. 

Let  us  begin  at  the  ground:  as  to  feet  —  they  are  not 
too  small  —  say  three  and  a  half  in  size.  And  they  sup 
port  rather  short  legs  —  my  goodness,  of  course  she  has 
legs  —  did  you  think  her  shoes  were  pinned  to  her  over- 
skirt?  Her  legs  carry  around  a  plump  body,  —  not  fat  — 
why,  certainty  not  —  who  ever  heard  of  a  fat  heroine  (the 
very  best  a  heroine  can  do  for  comfort  is  to  be  plump)  — 
and  so  beginning  the  sentence  over  again,  being  a  plump 
little  body,  there  is  a  neck  to  account  for  —  a  neck  which 

105 


106  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

we  may  look  at,  but  which  is  so  exquisite  that  it  would  be 
hardly  polite  to  consider  it  in  terms  of  language.  Only 
when  we  come  to  the  chin  that  tips  the  oval  of  the  face 
may  we  descend  to  language,  and  even  then  we  must  rise 
and  flick  the  red  mouth  with  but  a  passing  word.  But  this 
much  must  be  plainly  spoken.  The  nose  does  turn  up  — 
not  much  —  but  a  little  (Bob  used  to  say,  just  to  be  good 
and  out  of  the  way)  !  That,  however,  is  mere  personal 
opinion,  and  of  little  importance  here.  But  the  eyes  are 
brown — reddish  brown,  with  enough  white  at  the  corners 
to  make  them  seem  liquid ;  only  liquid  is  not  the  word. 
For  they  are  radiant  —  remember  that  word,  for  we  may 
come  back  to  it,  after  we  are  done  with  the  brow  —  a  wide 
brow  —  low  enough  for  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Char 
lotte  Bronte,  and  for  Longfellow  and  Whittier  and  Will 
Carleton  in  his  day,  and  high  enough  for  Tennyson  at  the 
temples,  but  not  so  high  but  that  the  gate  of  the  eyes 
has  to  shut  wearily  when  Browning  would  sail  through 
the  current  of  her  soul.  As  to  hair  —  Heaven  knows  there 
is  plenty  of  that,  but  it  had  rather  a  checkered  career. 
As  she  clung  to  her  mother's  apron  and  waved  her  father 
away  to  war,  she  was  a  tow-headed  little  tot,  and  when  he 
came  back  from  the  field  of  glory  he  thought  he  could 
detect  a  tendency  to  red  in  it,  but  the  fire  smouldered 
and  went  out,  and  the  hair  turned  brown  —  a  dark  brown 
with  the  glint  of  the  quenched  fires  in  it  when  it  blew  in 
the  sun.  Now  ii«;\me  a  glowing  young  face  in  that  soft 
waving  hair,  and  -ou  have  a  picture  that  will  speak,  and 
if  the  picture  should  come  to  life  and  speak  as  it  was  in 
the  year  of  our  Lord  1873,  the  first  word  of  all  the  words 
in  the  big  fat  dictionary  it  would  utter  would  be  Bob. 
An.  so  you  may  lift  up  your  face  and  take  your  name  and 
place  in  this  story  —  Molly  Culpepper,  heroine.  And 
when  you  lift  your  face,  we  may  see  something  more  than 
its  pretty  features:  we  shall  see  a  radiant  soul.  For  scien 
tists  have  found  out  that  every  material  thing  in  this  uni 
verse  gives  off  atomic  particles  of  itself,  and  some  elements 
are  more  radiant  than  others.  And  there  is  a  paralleling 
quality  in  the  spiritual  world,  and  some  souls  give  off 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  107 

more  of  their  colour  and  substance  than  others,  though 
what  it  is  they  radiate  we  do  not  know.  Even  the  scien 
tists  do  not  know  the  material  things  that  the  atoms  radi 
ate,  so  why  should  we  be  asked  to  define  the  essence  of 
'souls  ?  Yet  from  the  soul  of  Molly  Culpepper,  in  joy  and 
in  sorrow,  in  her  moments  of  usefulness  and  in  her  deepest 
woe,  her  soul  glowed  and  shed  its  glory,  and  she  grew  even 
as  she  gave  her  substance  to  the  world  about  her.  For 
that  is  the  magic  of  God's  mystery  of  life. 

And  now  having  for  the  moment  finished  our  discussion 
on  the  radio-activity  of  souls,  let  us  go  back  to  the  story. 

Mary  Barclay  rode  home  from  her  son's  wedding  that 
night  with  Bob  Hendricks  and  Molly  Culpepper.  They 
were  in  a  long  line  of  buggies  that  began  to  scatter  out 
and  roam  across  fields  to  escape  the  dust  of  the  roads. 
"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay,  as  they  pulled  up  the  bank  of 
the  Sycamore  for  home,  "I  suppose  it  will  be  you  and 
Molly  next,  Bob?" 

It  was  Molly  who  replied:  "Yes.  It  is  going  to  be 
Thanksgiving." 

"Well,  why  not?"  asked  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"Oh  —  they  all  seem  to  think  we  shouldn't,  don't  you 
know,  Mrs.  Barclay  —  with  all  this  hard  times  —  and  the 
bank  closing.  And  hasn't  John  told  you  of  the  plan  he's 
worked  out  for  Bob  to  go  to  New  York  this  winter  ?  " 

The  buggy  was  nearing  the  Barclay  home.  Mrs.  Bar 
clay  answered,  "  No,"  and  the  girl  went  >h.  - 

"  Well,  it's  a  big  wheat  land  scheme  and  Bob's  to  go 
East  and  sell  the  stock.  They  workea  it  out  last  night 
after  the  bank  closed.  He'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Mrs.  Barclay  was  standing  by  the  buggy  when  the  girl 
finished.  The  elder  woman  bade  the  young  people  jftfod 
night,  and  turned  and  went  into  the  yard  and  stood  a 
moment  looking  at  the  stars  before  going  into  her  lonely 
house.  The  lovers  let  the  tired  horses  lag  up  the  hill, 
and  as  they  turned  into  Lincoln  Avenue  the  girl  was 
saying  :  "  A  year's  so  long,  Bob,  —  so  long.  And  you'll 
be  away,  and  I'm  afraid."  He  tried  to  reassure  her;  but 
she  protested  :  "  You  are  all  my  life,  —  big  boy,  —  all  my 


108  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAIS 

life.  I  was  only  fourteen,  just  a  little  girl,  when  yon 
came  into  my  life,  and  all  these  long  seven  years  you  are 
the  only  human  being  that  has  been  always  in  my  heart. 
Oh,  Bob,  Bob,  — always." 

What  a  man  says  to  his  sweetheart  is  of  no  importance. 
Men  are  so  circumscribed  in  their  utterances  —  so  tongue- 
tied  in  love.  They  all  say  one  thing ;  so  it  need  not  be 
set  down  here  what  Bob  Hendricks  said.  It  was  what  the 
king  said  to  the  queen,  the  prince  to  the  princess,  the  duke 
to  the  lady,  the  gardener  to  the  maid,  the  troubadour  to 
his  dulcinea.  And  Molly  Culpepper  replied,  "  When  are 
you  going,  Bob?" 

The  young  man  picked  up  the  sagging  lines  to  turn  out 
for  Watts  McHurdie's  buggy.  He  had  just  let  Nellie 
Logan  out  at  the  Wards',  where  she  lived.  After  a  "  Hello, 
Watts ;  getting  pretty  late  for  an  old  man  like  you," 
Hendricks  answered  :  "  Well,  you  know  John  —  when  he 
gets  a  thing  in  his  head  he's  a  regular  tornado.  There 
was  an  immense  crowd  in  town  to-day  —  depositors  and  all 
that.  And  do  you  know,  John  went  out  this  afternoon 
with  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  live  hundred  dollars  he  dug 
I  out  of  his  safe  over  in  the  office,  and  he  got  options  to  lease 
1  their  land  for  a  year  signed  up  by  the  owners  of  five  thou- 
Jsand  acres  of  the  best  wheat  land  in  Garrison  County.  He 
wants  twenty  thousand  acres,  and  pretty  well  bunched 
down  in  Pleasant  and  Spring  townships,  and  I'm  going  in 
four  days."  The  young  man  was  full  of  the  scheme.  He 
went  on  :  "  John's  a  wonder,  Molly,  —  a  perfect  wonder. 
He's  got  grit.  Father  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  stand 
up  under  this  —  but  John  has  braced  him,  and  has  cheered 
up  the  people,  and  I  believe,  before  the  week  is  out,  we  will 
be  able  to  get  nearly  all  the  depositors  to  agree  to  leave 
their  money  alone  for  a  year,  and  then  only  take  it  out  on 
thirty  days'  notice.  And  if  we  can  get  that,  we  can  open 
up  by  the  first  of  the  month.  But  I've  got  to  go  on  to 
Washington  to  see  if  I  can  arrange  that  with  the  comp 
troller  of  the  currency." 

They  were  standing  at  the  Culpepper  gate  as  he  spoke. 
A  light  in  the  upper  windows  showed  that  the  parents 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  109 

were  in.  Buchanan  came  ambling  along  the  walk  and 
went  through  the  gate  between  them  without  speaking. 
When  he  had  closed  the  door,  the  girl  came  close  to  her 
lover.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  cried,  "  Oh,  darling, 

—  only  four  more  days  together."     He  paused,  and  in  the 
starlight  she  saw  on  his  face  more  than  words  could  have 
told  her  of  his  love  for  her.     He  was  a  silent  youth ;  the 
spoken  word  came  haltingly  to  his  lips,  and  as  often  hap 
pens,  words  were  superfluous  to  him  in  his  moments  of 
great  emotion.     He  put  her  hands  to  his  lips,  and  moaned, 
for  the  hour  of  parting  seemed  to  be  hurrying  down  upon 
him.      Finally   his   tongue   found   liberty.     "  Oh,  sweet 
heart —  sweetheart,"  he    cried,   "always    remember  that 
you  are  bound  in  my  soul  with  the  iron  of  youth's  first 
love  —  my  only  love.    Oh,  I  never  could  again,  dear,  —  only 
you  —  only  you.     After  this  it  would  be  a  sacrilege." 

They  stood  silent  in  the  joy  of  their  ecstaey  for  a  long 
minute,  then  he  asked  gently:  "  Do  you  understand,  Molly, 

—  do  you  understand  ?  this  is  forever  for  us,  Molly,  —  for 
ever.     When  one  loves  as  we  love  —  with  our  childhood 
and  youth  welded  into  it  all  —  whom  God  hath  joined —  " 
he  stammered ;  "  oh,  Molly,  whom  God  hath  joined,"  he 
whispered,  and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  sighed  again,  and 
kissed  her,  "whom    God  hath  joined.     Oh,  God  —  God, 
God!"  cried  the  lover,  as  he  closed  his  eyes  with  his  lips 
against  her  hair. 

The  restless  horses  recalled  the  lovers  to  the  earth.  It 
was  Molly  who  spoke.  "  Bob  —  Bob  —  I  can't  let  you 
go!" 

Molly  Culpepper  had  no  reserves  with  her  lover.  She 
went  on  whispering,  with  her  face  against  his  heart : 
"  Bob  —  Bob,  big  boy,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something 
truthy  true,  that  I  never  breathed  to  any  one.  At  night 

—  to-night,  in  just  a  few  minutes  —  when  I  go  up  to  my 
room  —  all  alone  —  I  get  your  picture  and  hold  it  to  me 
close,  and  holding  it  right  next  to  my  very  heart,  Bob,  I 
pray  for  you."    She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  continued, 
"  Oh,  and  —  I  pray  for  us  —  Bob  —  I  pray  for  us."    Then 
she  ran  up  the  stone  walk,  and  on  the  steps  she  turned  to 


110  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

throw  kisses  at  him,  but  he  did  not  move  until  he  heard 
the  lock  click  in  the  front  door. 

At  the  livery-stable  he  found  Watts  McHurdie  bending 
over  some  break  in  his  buggy.  They  walked  up  the  street 
together.  At  the  corner  where  they  were  about  to  part 
the  little  man  said,  as  he  looked  into  the  rapturous  face  of 
the  lanky  boy,  "Well,  Bob, — it's  good-by,  John,  for  you, 
I  suppose?" 

"  Oh  —  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other  from  his  en 
chanted  world  and  then  asked  absently,  "  Why  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  nature,  I  guess.  She'll  take  all  his  time 
now."  He  rubbed  his  chin  reflectively,  and  as  Bob  turned 
to  go  Watts  said  :  "  My  Heavens,  how  time  does  fly  !  It 
just  seems  like  yesterday  that  all  you  boys  were  raking 
over  the  scrap-pile  back  of  my  shop,  and  slipping  in  and 
nipping  leather  strands  and  braiding  them  into  whips,  and 
I'd  have  to  douse  you  with  water  to  get  rid  of  you.  I 
got  a  quirt  hanging  up  in  the  shop  now  that  Johnnie  Bar 
clay  dropped  one  day  when  I  got  after  him  with  a  pan  of 
water.  It's  a  six-sided  one,  with  eight  strands  down  in 
the  round  part.  I  taught  him  how  to  braid  it."  He 
chewed  a  moment  and  spat  before  going  on :  "  And  now 
look  at  him.  He's  little,  but  oh  my."  Something  was 
working  under  McHurdie's  belt,  for  Bob  could  hear  it 
chuckling  as  he  chewed :  "  Wasn't  she  a  buster  ?  It's 
funny,  ain't  it  —  the  way  we  all  pick  big  ones  —  we  sawed- 
offs  "  ?  The  laugh  came  —  a  quiet,  repressed  gurgle,  and 
he  added:  "Yes  —  by  hen,  and  you  long-shanks  always 
pick  little  dominickers.  Eh  ?  "  He  chewed  a  meditative 
cud  before  venturing,  "  That's  what  I  told  her  comin' 
home  to-night."  Bob  knew  whom  he  meant.  The  man 
went  on:  "But  when  she  saw  them — him  so  little  she'll 
have  to  shake  the  sheet  to  find  him  —  and  her  so  big  and 
-busting,  I  seen  her  —  you  know,"  he  nodded  his  head 
wisely  to  indicate  which  "her"  he  meant.  "I  saw  her 
a-eying  me,  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  looking  at 
him,  and  then  looking  at  the  girl,  and  looking  at  herself, 
and  on  the  way  home  to-night  I'm  damned  if  I  didn't  have 
to  put  off  asking  her  another  six  months."  He  sighed  and 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  111 

continued,  "  And  the  first  thing  I  know  the  drummer  or 
the  preacher'll  get  her."  He  chewed  for  a  minute  in  peace 
and  chuckled,  "Well  —  Bob,  I  suppose  you'll  be  next?" 
He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  spoke  up  quickly, 
"  Well,  Bob,  good  night  —  good  night,"  and  hurried  to  his 
shop. 

The  next  day  the  people  that  blackened  Main  Street  in 
Sycamore  Ridge  talked  of  two  things  —  the  bank  failure 
and  the  new  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company.  Barclay  en 
listed  Colonel  Culpepper,  and  promised  him  two  dollars 
for  every  hundred-acre  option  to  lease  that  he  secured  at 
three  dollars  an  acre  —  the  cash  on  the  lease  to  be  paid 
March  first.  Barclay's  plan  was  to  organize  a  stock  com 
pany  and  to  sell  his  stock  in  the  East  for  enough  to  raise 
eight  dollars  an  acre  for  every  acre  he  secured,  and  to  use 
the  five  dollars  for  making  the  crop.  He  believed  that 
with  a  good  wheat  crop  the  next  year  he  could  make 
money  and  buy  as  much  land  as  he  needed.  But  that 
year  of  the  panic  John  capitalized  the  hardship  of  his 
people,  and  made  terms  for  them,  which  they  could  not 
refuse.  He  literally  sold  them  their  own  want.  For  the 
fact  that  he  had  a  little  ready  money  and  could  promise 
more  before  harvest  upon  which  the  people  might  live  — 
however  miserably  was  no  concern  of  his  —  made  it  pos 
sible  for  him  to  drive  a  bargain  little  short  of  robbery. 
It  was  Bob's  part  of  the  business  to  float  the  stock  com 
pany  in  the  East  among  his  father's  rich  friends.  John 
was  to  furnish  the  money  to  keep  Bob  in  New  York, 
and  the  Hendricks'  connections  in  banking  circles  were 
to  furnish  the  cash  to  float  the  proposition,  and  the 
Hendricks'  bank  —  if  John  could  get  it  opened  again 
—  was  to  guarantee  that  the  stock  subscribed  would 
pay  six  per  cent  interest.  So  there  was  no  honeymoon 
for  John  Barclay.  When  he  dropped  the  reins  and  helped 
his  bride  out  of  the  buggy  the  next  morning  in  front  of 
the  Thayer  House,  he  hustled  General  Ward's  little  boy 
into  the  seat,  told  him  to  drive  the  team  to  Dolan's  stable, 
and  waving  the  new  Mrs.  Barclay  good-by,  limped  in  a 
trot  over  to  the  bank.  In  five  minutes  he  was  working 


112  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

in  the  crowd,  and  by  night  had  the  required  number  oi 
the  depositors  ready  to  agree  to  let  their  money  lie  a  year 
on  deposit,  and  that  matter  was  closed.  He  was  a 
solemn-faced  youth  in  those  days,  with  a  serious  air  about 
him,  and  something  of  that  superabundance  of  dignity 
little  men  often  think  they  must  assume  to  hold  their  own. 
The  town  knew  him  as  a  trim  little  man  in  a  three- 
^ttoned  tail-coat,  with  rather  extraordinar}r  neckties, 
a  well-brushed  hat,  and  shiny  shoes.  To  the  country  peo 
ple  he  was  "limping  Johnnie,"  and  General  Ward,  watch 
ing  Barclay  hustle  his  way  down  Main  Street  Saturday 
afternoons,  when  the  sidewalk  and  the  streets  were  full 
of  people,  used  to  say,  "Busier  'n  a  tin  pedler."  And 
he  said  to  Mrs.  Ward,  "  Lucy,  if  it's  true  that  old 
Grandpa  Barclay  got  his  start  carrying  a  pack,  you  can 
see  him  cropping  out  in  John,  bigger  than  a  wolf." 

But  the  general  had  little  time  to  devote  to  John,  for 
he  was  state  organizer  of  a  movement  that  had  for  its 
object  the  abolition  of  middlemen  in  trade,  and  he  was 
travelling  most  of  the  time.  The  dust  gathered  on  his 
law-books,  and  his  Sunday  suit  grew  frayed  at  the  edges 
and  shiny  at  the  elbows,  but  his  heart  was  in  the  cause, 
and  his  blue  eyes  burned  with  joy  when  he  talked,  and  he 
was  happy,  and  had  to  travel  two  days  and  nights  when 
the  fourth  baby  came,  and  then  was  too  late  to  serve  on 
the  committee  on  reception,  and  had  to  be  satisfied  with  a 
minor  place  on  the  committee  on  entertainment  and  amuse 
ments  of  which  Mrs.  Culpepper  was  chairman.  But  John 
turned  in  half  of  a  fee  that  came  from  the  East  for  a  law 
suit  that  both  he  and  Ward  had  forgotten,  and  Miss  Lucy 
would  have  named  the  new  baby  Mary  Ward,  but  the 
general  stood  firm  for  Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton.  Sitting 
at  Sunday  dinner  with  the  Wards  on  the  occasion  of 
Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton  Ward's  first  monthly  birthdayT 
John  listened  to  the  general's  remarks  on  the  iniquity  of 
the  money  power,  and  the  wickedness  of  the  national 
banks,  and  kept  respectful  and  attentive  silence.  The 
worst  the  young  man  did  was  to  wink  swiftly  across  the 
table  at  Watts  McHurdie,  who  had  been  invited  by  Mrs. 


A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  113 

Ward  with  malice  prepense  and  seated  by  Nellie  Logan. 
The  wink  came  just  as  the  general,  waving  the  carving 
knife,  was  saying :  "  Gentlemen,  it's  the  world-old  fight 
—  the  fight  of  might  against  right.  When  I  was  a  boy 
like  you,  John,  the  fight  was  between  brute  strength  and 
the  oppressed ;  between  slaves  and  masters.  Now  it  is 
between  weakness  and  cunning,  between  those  who  would 
be  slaveholders  if  they  could  be,  and  those  who  are  fight 
ing  the  shackles."  And  Mrs.  Ward  saw  the  wink,  and 
John  saw  that  she  saw  it,  and  he  was  ashamed. 

So  before  the  afternoon  was  over,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Barclay  went  over  to  Hendricks's,  picking  up  Molly  Cul- 
pepper  on  the  way,  and  the  three  spent  the  evening  with 
the  general  and  Miss  Hendricks  —  a  faded  mousy  little 
woman  in  despairing  thirties ;  and  before  the  open  fire 
they  sat  and  talked,  and  John  played  the  piano  for  an  hour, 
and  thought  out  an  extra  kink  for  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat 
Company's  charter.  He  jabbered  about  it  to  Jane  as  they 
walked  home,  and  the  next  day  it  became  a  fact. 

"That  boy,"  said  the  colonel  to  his  assembled  family 
one  evening  as  they  dined  on  mush  and  dried  peaches,  and 
coffee  made  of  parched  corn,  "  that  John  Barclay  certainly 
and  surely  is  a  marvel.  Talk  about  drawing  blood  from 
a  turnip,  —  why,  he  can  strike  an  artery  in  a  pumpkin." 
The  colonel  smiled  reflectively  as  he  proceeded  :  "  Chicago 
lawyer  came  in  on  the  stage  this  afternoon,  —  kinder  get 
ting  uneasy  about  a  little  interest  I  owed  to  an  Ohio  man  on 
that  College  Heights  property,  and  John  took  that  Chicago 
lawyer  up  to  his  office,  and  talked  him  into  putting  the 
interest  in  a  second  mortgage  with  all  the  interest  that  will 
fall  due  till  next  spring,  and  then  traded  him  Golden  Belt 
Wheat  Company  stock  for  the  mortgage  and  a  thousand 
dollars  besides." 

"  Well,  did  John  give  you  back  the  mortgage,  father  ?  " 
asked  Molly. 

"No,  sis, —  that  wouldn't  be  business,"  replied  the  colo 
nel,  as  he  stirred  his  dried  peaches  into  his  third  dish  of 
mush  for  dessert ;  "  business  is  business,  you  know.  John 
took  the  mortgage  over  to  the  bank  and  discounted  it  for 


114  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

some  money  to  buy  more  options  with.  John  surely  does 
make  things  hum." 

"  Yes,  and  he's  made  Bob  resign  from  the  board  of  com 
missioners,  and  won't  let  him  come  home  Christmas,  and 
keeps  him  on  fifty  dollars  a  month  there  in  New  York — 
all  the  same,"  returned  the  girl. 

The  colonel  looked  at  his  daughter  a  moment  in  sympa 
thetic  silence  ;  then  he  put  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of 
his  vest  and  tilted  back  in  his  chair  and  answered  :  "  Oh, 
well,  my  dear,  —  when  you  are  living  in  a  brown-stone  house 
on  Fifth  Avenue  down  in  New  York,  stepping  on  a  nigger 
every  which  way  you  turn,  you'll  thank  John  that  he  did 
keep  Bob  at  work,  and  not  bring  him  back  here  to  pin  on 
a  buffalo  tail,  drink  crick  water,  eat  tumble  weeds,  and  run 
wild.  I  say,  and  I  fear  no  contradiction  when  I  say  it, 
that  John  Barclay  is  a  marvel  —  a  living  wonder  in  point 
of  fact.  And  if  Bob  Hendricks  wants  to  come  back  here 
and  live  on  the  succulent  and  classic  bean  and  the  luscious, 
and  I  may  say  tempting,  flapjack,  let  him  come,  Molly 
Farquhar  Culpepper,  let  him  come."  The  colonel,  proud 
of  his  language,  looked  around  the  family  circle.  "  And 
we  at  our  humble  board,  with  our  plain  though  —  shall  I 
say  nutritive  —  yes,  nutritive  and  wholesome  fare,  should 
thank  our  lucky  stars  that  John  Barclay  keeps  the  Golden 
Belt  Wheat  Company  going,  and  your  husband  and  father 
can  make  a  more  or  less  honest  dollar  now  and  then  to 
supply  your  simple  wants." 

The  colonel  had  more  in  his  mind,  for  he  rose  and  began 
to  pace  the  floor  in  a  fine  frenzy.  But  Mrs.  Culpepper 
looked  up  for  an  instant  from  her  tea,  and  said,  "  You 
know  you  forgot  the  mail  to-day,  father,"  and  he  replied, 
"Yes,  that's  so."  Then  added:  "Molly  dear,  will  you 
bring  me  my  overcoat  —  please  ?  " 

The  girl  bundled  her  father  into  his  threadbare  blue 
army  overcoat  with  the  cape.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
absently  rattling  some  dimes  in  his  pocket.  Then  the 
faintness  of  their  jingle  must  have  appealed  to  him,  for 
he  drew  a  long  breath  and  walked  majestically  away. 
He  was  a  tall  stout  man  in  the  midst  of  his  forties,  with  a 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  115 

military  goatee  and  black  flowing  mustaches,  and  he  wore 
his  campaign  hat  pinned  up  at  the  side  with  the  brass 
military  pin  and  swayed  with  some  show  of  swagger  as  he 
walked.  His  gift  of  oratory  he  did  not  bring  to  the  flower 
of  its  perfection  except  at  lodge.  He  was  always  sent  as 
a  delegate  to  Grand  Lodge,  and  when  he  came  home  men 
came  from  all  over  the  county  to  see  the  colonel  exemplify 
the  work.  But  as  he  marched  to  funerals  under  his  large 
white  plume  and  with  his  sword  dangling  at  his  side, 
Colonel  Martin  Culpepper,  six  feet  four  one  way  and  four 
feet  two  the  other,  was  a  regal  spectacle,  and  it  will  be 
many  years  before  the  town  will  see  his  like  again. 

The  colonel  walked  over  to  the  post-office  box  and  got 
his  mail,  then  took  a  backless  chair  and  drew  it  up  to  the 
sand  box  in  which  the  stove  sat,  and  the  conversation  be 
came  general  in  its  nature,  ranging  from  Emerson's  theory 
of  the  cosmos  and  the  whiskey  ring  to  the  efficacy  of  a 
potato  in  the  pocket  for  rheumatism.  Finally  when  they 
had  come  to  their  "  don't  you  remembers  "  about  the  battle 
of  Wilson's  Creek,  General  Ward,  with  his  long  coat  but 
toned  closely  about  him,  came  shivering  into  the  store  to 
get  some  camphor  gum  and  stood  rubbing  his  cold  hands 
by  the  stove  while  the  clerk  was  wrapping  up  the  package. 
His  thin  nose  was  red  and  his  eyes  watered,  and  he  had 
little  to  say.  When  he  went  out  the  colonel  said,  "  What's 
he  going  to  run  for  this  year  ?  " 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  replied  McHurdie,  and  to  the 
colonel's  negative  Watts  replied,  "  Governor  —  the  up 
rising's  going  to  nominate  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Frye,^4  and  he'll  go  off  following  that  fool 
ishness  and  leave  his  wife  and  children  to  John  or  the 
neighbours." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  thinks  he'll  win  ? "  asked  the 
Colonel. 

"  Naw,"  put  in  McHurdie  ;  "  I  was  talking  to  him  only 
last  week  in  the  shop,  and  he  says,  '  Watts,  you  boys 
don't  understand  me.'  He  says,  CI  don't  want  their 
offices.  What  I  want  is  to  make  them  think.  I'm  sowing 
seed.  Some  day  it  will  come  to  a  harvest  —  maybe  long 


116  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

after  I'm  dead  and  gone.'  I  asked  him  if  a  little  seed 
wouldn't  help  out  some  for  breakfast,  and  he  didn't  answer. 
Then  he  said  :  '  Watts  —  what  you  need  is  faith  —  faith  in 
God  and  not  in  money.  There  are  no  Christians  ;  they 
don't  believe  in  God,  or  they'd  trust  Him  more.  They 
don't  trust  God  ;  they  trust  money.  Yet  I  tell  you  it  will 
work.  Go  ahead  —  do  your  work  in  the  world,  and  you 
won't  starve  nor  your  children  beg  in  the  streets.'  "  Mc- 
Hurdie  stopped  a  moment  to  gnaw  his  plug  of  tobacco. 
"  The  general's  gitting  kind  of  a  crank  —  and  I  told 
him  so." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  inquired  the  colonel. 

"Oh,  he  just  laughed,"  replied  McHurdie;  "he  just 
laughed  and  said  if  he  was  a  crank  I  was  a  poet,  and 
neither  was  much  good  at  the  note  window  of  the  bank, 
and  we  kind  of  made  it  up." 

And  so  the  winter  evening  grew  old,  and  one  by  one 
the  cronies  rose  and  yawned  and  went  their  way.  Even 
ing  after  evening  went  thus,  and  was  it  strange  that  in 
the  years  that  came,  when  the  sunset  of  life  was  gilding 
things  for  Watts  McHurdie,  he  looked  through  the  golden 
haze  and  saw  not  the  sand  in  the  pit  under  the  stove,  not 
the  rows  of  drugs  on  the  wall,  not  the  patent  medicine 
bottles  in  their  faded  wrappers,  but  as  he  wrote  many 
years  after  in  "  Autumn  Musing  " :  — 

"  Those  nights  when  Wisdom  was  our  guide 

And  Friendship  was  the  glow, 
That  warmed  our  souls  like  living  coals, 
Those  nights  of  long  ago." 

Nor  is  it  strange  that  Martin  Culpepper,his  commentator, 
conning  those  lines  through  the  snows  of  many  winters, 
should  be  a  little  misty  as  to  details,  and  having  taken  his 
pen  in  hand  to  write,  should  set  down  this  note :  — 

"  These  lines  probably  refer  to  the  evenings  which  the 
poet  passed  in  a  goodly  company  of  choice  spirits  during  the 
early  seventies.  E'en  as  I  write,  Memory,  with  tender 
hand,  pushes  back  the  sombre  curtain,  and  I  see  them  now 
—  that  charmed  circle;  the  poet  with  the  brow  of  Jove 
and  Minerva's  lips  ;  the  rugged  warrior  at  his  side,  with 


A   CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  117 

the  dignity  of  Mars  himself ;  perhaps  some  Croesus  with 
his  gold,  drawn  by  the  spell  of  Wisdom's  enchantment 
into  the  magic  circle  ;  and  this  your  humble  disciple  of 
Thucydides,  sitting  spellbound  under  the  drippings  of 
the  sacred  font,  getting  the  material  for  these  pages. 
That  was  the  Golden  Age ;  there  were  giants  in  those 
days." 

And  so  there  were,  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper  of  the 
Great  Heart  and  the  "  large  white  plumes  "  —  so  there 


were. 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  a  cold  raw  day  in  March,  1874.  Colonel  Cul- 
pepper  was  sitting  in  the  office  of  Ward  and  Barclay  over 
the  Exchange  National  Bank  waiting  for  the  junior 
member  of  the  firm  to  come  in ;  the  senior  member  of  the 
firm,  who  had  just  brought  up  an  arm  load  of  green  hick 
ory  and  dry  hackberry  stove  wood,  was  standing  beside 
the  box-shaped  stove,  abstractedly  brushing  the  sawdust 
and  wormwood  from  his  sleeves  and  coat  front.  The 
colonel  was  whistling  and  whittling,  and  the  general  kept 
on  brushing  after  the  last  speck  of  dust  had  gone  from  his 
shiny  coat.  He  walked  to  the  window  and  stared  into  the 
ugly  brown  street. 

Two  or  three  minutes  passed,  and  Colonel  Culpepper, 
anxious  for  the  society  of  his  kind,  spoke.  "  Well,  Gen 
eral,  what's  the  trouble  ?  " 

"Nothing  in  particular,  Martin.  I  was  just  question 
ing  the  reality  of  matter  and  the  existence  of  the  universe 
as  you  spoke;  but  it's  not  important."  The  general 
shivered,  and  turned  his  kind  blue  eyes  on  his  friend  in  a 
smile,  and  then  bethought  him  to  put  the  wood  in  the 
stove. 

While  he  was  jamming  in  a  final  stick,  Colonel  Cul 
pepper  inquired,  "  Well,  am  I  an  appearance  or  an  entity?" 

The  general  put  the  smoking  poker  on  the  floor,  and 
turned  the  damper  in  the  pipe  as  he  answered :  "  That's 
what  I  can't  seem  to  make  out.  You  know  old  Emerson 
says  a  man  doesn't  amount  to  much  as  a  thinker  until  he 
has  doubted  the  existence  of  matter.  And  I  just  got  to 
thinking  about  it,  and  wondering  if  this  was  a  real  world 
after  all  —  or  just  my  idea  of  one."  The  two  men  smiled 
at  the  notion,  and  Ward  went  on :  "  All  right,  laugh  if 
you  want  to,  but  if  this  is  a  real  world,  whose  world  is 

118 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  119 

it,  your  world  or  my  world  ?  Here  is  John  Barclay,  for 
instance.  Sometimes  I  get  a  peek  at  his  world."  Ward 
picked  up  the  poker  and  sat  down  and  hammered  the  toe 
of  a  boot  with  it  as  he  went  on  :  "  John's  world  is  the 
Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company,  wheat  pouring  a  steady 
stream  into  boundless  bins,  and  money  flowing  in  golden 
ripples  over  it  all.  Sometimes  Bob  Hendricks'  head 
rises  above  the  tide  long  enough  to  gasp  or  cry  for  help 
and  beg  to  come  home,  but  John's  golden  flood  sweeps 
over  him  again,  and  he's  gone.  And  here's  your  world, 
Martin,  wherein  every  one  is  kind  and  careless,  and  gener 
ous  and  good,  and  full  of  smiles  and  gayety.  And  there's 
Lige  Bemis'  world,  full  of  cunning  and  hypocrisy,  and 
meanness  and  treachery  and  plotting  —  a  hell  of  a  world  it 
is,  with  its  foundations  on  hate  and  deceit  —  but  it's  his 
world,  and  he  has  the  same  right  to  it  that  I  have  to  mine. 
And  there's  old  Watts'  world — "  The  general  sighted 
along  the  poker  over  his  toe  to  the  stove  side  whereon  a 
cornucopia  wriggled  out  of  nothing  and  poured  its  rich 
ness  of  fruit  and  grain  into  nothing.  "There's  Watts' 
world,  full  of  stuffed  Personifications,  Virtue,  Pleasure, 
Happiness,  Sin,  Sorrow,  and  God  knows  what  of  demigods, 
with  the  hay  of  his  philosophy  sticking  out  of  their  eye 
holes.  You  know  about  his  maxims,  Mart;  he  actually 
lives  by  'em,  and  no  matter  how  common  sense  yells  at 
him  to  get  off  the  track,  old  Watts  just  goes  on  following 
his  maxims,  and  gets  butted  into  the  middle  of  next 
week." 

The  colonel  was  making  a  hole  in  the  stick  in  his  hands, 
and  his  attention  was  fixed  on  the  whittling,  but  he  added, 
"And  your  own  world,  General  —  how  about  your  own 
world  ?  " 

"  My  world,"  replied  the  general,  as  he  pulled  at  the 
bows  of  his  rather  soiled  white  tie,  and  evened  them,  "  My 
world — "the  general  jabbed  the  poker  spear-like  into 
the  floor,  "  I  guess  I'm  a  kind  of  a  transcendentalist  I " 

The  colonel  blew  the  chips  through  the  hole  in  his 
stick  ;  he  bored  it  round  in  the  pause  that  followed  before 
he  spoke. 


120  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

"  A  transcendentalist,  eh  ?  Well,  pintedly,  General,  that 
is  what  I  may  call  a  soft  impeachment,  as  the  poet  says  — 
a  mighty  soft  impeachment.  I've  heard  you  called  a  lot 
worse  names  than  that  —  and  I  may  say,"  here  the  crow's- 
feet  began  scratching  for  a  smile  around  the  colonel's 
eyes,  "proved,  sir,  with  you  as  the  prosecuting  witness." 

The  two  men  chuckled.  Then  the  general,  balancing 
himself,  with  the  poker  point  on  the  floor,  as  he  tilted 
back  went  on  :  "  My  world,  Mart  Culpepper,  is  a  world  in 
which  the  ideal  is  real  —  a  world  in  a  state  of  flux  with 
thoughts  of  to-day  the  matter  of  to-morrow  ;  my  world  is 
a.  world  of  faith  that  God  will  crystallize  to-day's  aspira 
tions  into  to-morrow's  justice;  my  world,"  the  general  rose 
and  waved  his  poker  as  if  to  beat  down  the  forces  of  ma 
terialism  about  him, "  my  world  is  the  substance  of  things 
hoped  for,  and  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen."  He  paused. 
"As  I  was  saying,"  he  continued  at  last,  "  if  this  is  a  real 
world,  if  matter  actually  exists  and  this  world  is  not  a 
dream  of  my  consciousness,  whose  world  is  it,  my  world, 
your  world,  Watts  McHurdie's  world,  Lige's  world,  or 
John's  world  ?  It  can't  be  all  of  'em."  He  put  the  poker 
across  the  stove  hearth,  and  sank  his  hands  deeply  into  his 
pockets  as  he  continued  :  "  The  question  that  philosophy 
never  has  answered  is  this  :  Am  I  a  spectre  and  you  an 
essence,  or  are  you  a  spectre  and  am  I  an  essence  ?  Is  it 
your  world  or  mine  ?  " 

The  two  men  looked  instinctively  at  the  rattling  door 
knob,  and  John  Barclay  limped  into  the  room.  His  face 
was  red  with  the  cold  and  the  driving  mist.  He  walked 
to  the  stove  and  unbuttoned  his  ulster,  while  the  colonel 
put  the  subject  of  the  debate  before  him.  The  general 
amended  the  colonel's  statement  from  time  to  time,  but  the 
young  man  only  smiled  tolerantly  and  shook  his  head. 
Then  he  went  to  his  desk  and  pulled  a  letter  from  a 
drawer. 

"  Colonel,  I've  got  a  letter  here  from  Bob.  The  thing 
doesn't  seem  to  be  moving.  He  only  sold  about  a  thou 
sand  dollars'  worth  of  stock  last  month  —  a  falling  off  of 
forty  per  cent,  and  we  must  have  more  or  we  can't  take  up 


A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  121 

ii  our  leases.     He's  begging  like  a  dog  to  come  home  for  a 

i  week,  but  I  can't  let  him.     We  need  that  week."     He 

I  limped  over  to  the  elder  and  put  his  hand  on  the  tall  man's 

arm  as  he  said  :  "  Now,  Colonel,  that  was  what  I  sent  for 

]  you  about.     You  kind  of  speak  to  Molly  and  have   her 

write  him  and  tell  him  to  hold  on   a  little  while.     It's 

business,  you  know,  and  we  can't  afford  to  have  sentiment 

interfere  with  business." 

The  colonel,  standing  by  the  window,  replied,  after 
a  pause  :  "  I  can  see  where  you  are  right,  John.  Business 
is  business.  You  got  to  consider  that."  He  looked  into 
the  street  below  and  saw  General  Hendricks  come  shud 
dering  into  the  cold  wind.  "  How's  he  getting  on  ?  " 
asked  Culpepper,  nodding  towards  Hendricks,  who  seemed 
unequal  to  the  gale. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Colonel,  —  times  are  hard." 

"  My,  how  he's  aging  I  "  said  the  colonel,  softly. 

After  a  silence  Barclay  said  :  "  There's  one  thing  sure 
—  I've  got  it  into  his  hard  old  head  that  Bob  is  doing 
something  back  there,  and  he  couldn't  earn  his  salt  here. 
Besides,"  added  Barclay,  as  if  to  justify  himself  against  an 
accusing  conscience,  "  the  old  man  does  all  the  work  in  the 
bank  now,  with  time  to  spare." 

It  was  the  day  of  army  overcoats,  and  the  hard  times 
had  brought  hundreds  of  them  from  closets  and  trunks. 
General  Hendricks,  fluttering  down  the  street  in  his  faded 
blue,  made  a  rather  pathetic  figure.  The  winter  had 
whitened  his  hair  and  withered  his  ruddy  face.  His  un 
equal  struggle  with  the  wind  seemed  some  way  symbolical 
of  his  life,  and  the  two  men  watched  him  out  of  sight 
without  a  word.  The  colonel  turned  toward  his  own  blue 
overcoat  which  lay  sprawling  in  a  chair,  and  Barclay  said 
as  he  helped  the  elder  man  squeeze  into  it,  "  Don't  forget 
to  speak  to  Molly,  Colonel,"  and  then  ushered  him  to  the 
door.  For  a  moment  Colonel  Culpepper  stood  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  stairs,  partly  hesitating  to  go  into  the  windy 
street,  and  partly  trying  to  think  of  some  way  in  which 
he  could  get  the  subject  on  his  mind  before  his  daughter  in 
the  right  way.  Then  as  he  stood  on  the  threshold  with 


122  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

his  nose  in  the  storm,  he  recalled  General  Ward's  discourse 
about  the  different  worlds,  and  he  thought  of  Molly's 
world  of  lovers'  madness,  and  that  brought  up  his  own 
youth  and  its  day-dreams,  and  Molly  flew  out  of  his  mind 
and  her  mother  came  in,  and  he  saw  her  blue-eyed  and  fair 
as  she  stood  before  him  on  their  wedding-day.  With  that 
picture  in  his  heart  he  breasted  the  storm  and  went  home 
whistling  cheerfully,  walking  through  his  world  like  a 
prince. 

When  the  colonel  left  the  office  of  Ward  and  Barclay,  the 
partners  retired  into  their  respective  worlds  and  went  sail 
ing  through  space,  each  world  upon  its  own  axis.  The 
general  in  a  desultory  way  began  writing  letters  to  reform 
ers  urging  them  to  prepare  for  the  coming  struggle ;  but 
John  was  head  over  heels  in  the  business  of  the  Golden 
Belt  Wheat  Company,  and  in  an  hour  had  covered  two 
sheets  of  foolscap  with  figures  and  had  written  a  dozen 
letters.  The  scratch,  scratch  of  his  pen  was  as  regular  as 
the  swish  of  a  piston.  On  the  other  hand,  the  general 
often  stopped  and  looked  off  into  space,  and  three  times 
he  got  up  to  mend  the  fire.  At  the  end  of  the  afternoon 
Mrs.  Ward  came  in,  her  cheeks  pink  with  the  cold ;  she 
had  left  the  seven-year-old  to  care  for  the  one-year-old,  and 
the  five-year-old  to  look  after  the  three-year-old,  and  had 
come  scurrying  through  the  streets  in  a  brown  alpaca  dress 
with  a  waterproof  cape  over  her  shoulders.  She  and  the 
general  spoke  for  a  few  moments  in  their  corner,  and  she 
hurried  out  again.  The  general  finished  the  letter  he 
was  writing  and  wrote  another,  and  then  backed  up  to  the 
stove  with  his  coat  tails  in  front  of  him  and  stood  benignly 
watching  Barclay  work.  Barclay  felt  the  man's  attention, 
and  whirling  about  in  his  chair  licking  an  envelope  flap,  he 
said,  "  Well,  General  —  what's  on  your  mind?" 

"  I  was  just  thinking  of  Lucy  —  that's  all,"  replied  the 
general.  Barclay  knew  that  the  Wards  had  gone  through 
the  winter  on  less  than  one  hundred  dollars,  and  it  oc 
curred  to  the  younger  man  that  times  might  be  rather 
hard  in  the  Ward  household.  So  he  asked,  "  Are  you  wor 
ried  about  money  matters,  General  ?  " 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  123 

The  general's  smile  broadened  to  a  grin.     u  Well,  to  be 
exact,  Lucy  and  I  just  counted  cash  —  it's  in  her  pocket- 
book,  and  we  find  our  total  cash  assets  are  eight  dollars 
and  thirty-nine  cents,  and  it's  got  to  tide  us  over  till  grass." 
He  stroked  his  lean  chin,  and  ran  his  hands  through  his 
|  iron-gray  hair   and   went  on,    "  That's  plenty,    the    way 
I  we've  figured  it  out  —  Lucy  and  I  only  eat  one  meal  a  day 
!  anyway,  and  the  children  seem  to  eat  all  the  time  and  that 
!  averages  it  up."     He  smiled  deprecatingly  and   added  : 
|  "  But  Lucy's  got  her  heart  set   on  a  little  matter,   and 
I  we've  decided  to  spend  eighty-seven  cents,  as  you  might 
|  say  riotously,  and  get  it.     That's  what  we  were  talking 
j  about." 

Barclay  entered  into  the  spirit  of  Ward's  remarks  and 
i  put  in:  "  But  the  National  debt,  General  —  if  you  have 
all  that  money  to  spare,  why  don't  you  pay  it  off  ?     Practise 
what  you  preach,  General." 

The  smile  faded  from  Ward's  face.  He  was  not  a  man 
to  joke  on  what  he  regarded  as  sacred  things.  He  replied : 
44  Yes,  yes,  that's  just  it.  My  share  of  the  interest  on  that 
debt  this  winter  was  just  seventy-five  cents,  and  if  it  wasn't 
for  that,  we  would  have  had  enough  to  get  them;  as  it  is, 
we  are  going  to  cut  out  meat  for  a  week  —  we  figured  it 
all  out  just  now  —  and  get  them  anyway.  She's  down  at 
the  store  buying  them." 

44  Buying  what  ?  "  asked  Barclay. 

The  general's  face  lighted  up  again  with  a  grin,  and  he 
replied:  "Now  laugh  —  dog-gone  you  —  buying  flower 
seeds  !  "  They  heard  a  step  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs, 
and  the  general  strode  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called 
down,  "  All  right,  Lucy  —  I'm  coming,"  and  buttoning 
up  his  coat,  he  whisked  himself  from  the  room,  and  Barclay, 
looking  out  of  the  window,  watched  the  two  forms  as  they 
disappeared  in  the  dusk.  But  appearances  are  so  decep 
tive.  The  truth  is  that  what  he  saw  was  not  there  at  all, 
but  only  appeared  on  his  retina;  the  two  forms  that  he 
seemed  to  see  were  not  shivering  through  the  twilight,  but 
were  walking  among  dahlias  and  coxcombs  and  four* 
o'clocks  and  petunias  and  poppies  and  hollyhocks  on  a 


124  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

wide  lawn  whereon  newly  set  elm  trees  were  fluttering 
their  faint  green  foliage  in  the  summer  breeze.  Yet  John 
Barclay  would  have  sworn  he  saw  them  there  in  the  cold 
street,  with  the  mist -beating  upon  them,  and  curiously 
corroborative  of  this  impression  is  a  memory  he  retained 
of  reflecting  that  since  the  general's  blue  overcoat  had 
disappeared  the  winter  before,  he  had  noticed  that  little 
Thayer  had  a  blue  Sunday  suit  and  little  Elizabeth  Cady 
Stanton  had  appeared  wrapped  in  a  blue  baby  coat.  But 
that  only  shows  how  these  matter-of-fact  people  are  fooled. 
For  though  the  little  Wards  were  caparisoned  in  blue,  and 
though  the  general's  blue  overcoat  did  disappear  about 
that  time,  the  general  and  Lucy  Ward  have  no  recollection 
of  shivering  home  that  night,  but  instead  they  know  that 
they  walked  among  the  flowers. 

And  John,  looking  into  the  darkening  street,  must  have 
seen  something  besides  the  commonplace  couple  that  he 
thought  he  saw ;  for  as  he  turned  away  to  light  his  lamp 
and  go  to  work  again,  he  smiled.  Surely  there  was  nothing 
to  smile  at  in  the  thing  he  saw.  Perhaps  God  was  trying 
to  make  him  see  the  flowers.  But  he  did  not  see  them,  and 
as  it  was  nearly  an  hour  before  six  o'clock,  he  turned  to 
his  work  under  the  lamp  and  finished  his  letter  to  Bob 
Hendricks.  When  it  was  written,  he  read  it  over  care 
fully,  crossing  his  "  t's  "  and  dotting  his  "  i's,"  and  as  no 
one  was  in  the  room  he  mumbled  it  aloud,  thus :  — 

"  DEAR  BOB  :  —  Don't  get  blue ;  it  will  be  all  right.  Stick  to  it.  I 
am  laying  a  wire  that  will  get  you  an  audience  with  Jay  Gould.  Make 
the  talk  of  your  life  there.  You  may  be  able  to  interest  him  —  if  just 
for  a  few  dollars.  Offer  him  anything.  Give  him  the  stock  if  he  will 
let  us  use  his  name. 

"  Don't  get  uneasy  about  Molly,  Bob.  Jane  and  I  see  that  she  goes 
to  everything,  and  we've  scared  her  up  a  kind  of  brevet  beau  —  an 
old  rooster  named  Brownwell — Adrian  Pericles  Brownwell,  who  has 
blown  in  here  and  bought  the  Banner  from  Ezra  Lane.  Brownwell  is 
from  Alabama.  Do  you  remember,  Bob,  that  day  at  Wilson's  Creek 
after  we  got  separated  in  the  Battle  I  ran  into  a  pile  of  cavalry  writh 
ing  in  a  road?  Well,  there  was  one  face  in  that  awful  struggling  mass 
that  I  always  remembered  —  and  I  never  expect  to  see  such  a  look  of 
fear  on  a  man's  face  again  —  he  was  a  young  fellow  then,  but  now  he'a 
thirty-five  or  so.  Well  —  that  was  this  man  Brownwell.  I  asked  him 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  125 

about  it  the  other  day.  How  he  ever  got  out  alive,  I  don't  know ;  but 
the  fact  that  he  should  turn  up  here  proves  that  this  is  a  small  world. 
Brownwell  also  is  a  writer  from  Writersville.  You  should  see  the  way 
he  paints  the  lily  in  the  Banner  every  week.  You  remember  old  Cap 
Lee  —  J.  Lord  Lee  of  the  Red  Legs —  and  Lady  Lee,  as  they  called  her 
when  she  was  a  sagebrush  siren  with  the  *  Army  of  the  Border '  before 
the  War  ?  Well,  read  this  clipping  from  the  Banner  of  this  week : 
*  The  wealth,  beauty,  and  fashion  of  Minneola  —  fairest  village  of  the 
plain  — were  agog  this  week  over  the  birth  of  a  daughter  to  Lord  and 
Lady  Lee,  whose  prominence  in  our  social  circles  makes  the  event  one 
of  first  importance  in  our  week's  annals.  Little  Beatrix,  for  so  they 
have  decided  to  christen  her,  will  some  day  be  a  notable  addition  to 
our  refined  and  gracious  circles.  Welcome  to  you,  little  stranger.' 

"  Now  you  know  the  man  !  You  needn't  be  jealous  of  him.  How 
ever,  he  has  frozen  to  the  Culpeppers  because  they  are  from  the  South, 
and  clearly  he  thinks  they  are  the  only  persons  of  consequence  in  town. 
So  he  beaus  Molly  around  with  Jane  and  me  to  the  concerts  and  socia 
bles  and  things.  He  is  easily  thirty-five,  walks  with  a  cane,  struts 
like  a  peacock,  and  Molly  and  Jane  are  having  great  sport  with  him. 
Also  he  is  the  only  man  in  town  with  any  money.  He  brought  five 
thousand  dollars  in  gold,  real  money,  —  his  people  made  it  on  contra 
band  cotton  contracts  during  the  War,  they  say,  —  and  he  has  been  the 
only  visible  means  of  support  the  town  has  had  for  three  months. 
But  in  the  meantime  don't  worry  about  Molly,  Bob,  she's  all  right,  and 
business  is  business,  you  know,  and  you  shouldn't  let  such  things  inter 
fere  with  it.  But  in  another  six  months  we'll  be  out  of  the  woods  and 
on  our  way  to  big  money." 

Now  another  strange  thing  happened  to  John  Barclay 
that  evening,  and  this  time  it  was  what  he  saw,  not  what 
he  failed  to  see,  that  puzzled  him.  For  just  as  he  sealed 
the  letter  to  his  friend,  and  thumped  his  lean  list  on  it  to 
blot  the  address  on  the  envelope  and  press  the  mucilage 
down,  he  looked  around  suddenly,  though  he  never  knew 
why,  and  there,  just  outside  the  rim  of  light  from  his  lamp 
shade,  trembled  the  image  of  Ellen  Culpepper  with  her 
red  and  black  checked  flannel  dress  at  her  shoe  tops  and 
his  rubber  button  ring  upon  her  finger.  She  smiled  at 
him  sweetly  for  a  moment  and  shook  her  head  sadly,  and 
her  curls  fluttered  upon  her  shoulders,  and  then  she  seemed 
to  fade  into  the  general's  desk  by  the  opposite  wall.  John 
was  pallid  and  frightened  for  a  moment ;  then  as  he  looked 
at  the  great  pile  of  letters  before  him  he  realized  how 
tired  and  worn  he  was.  But  the  face  and  the  eyes  haunted 


126  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

him  and  brought  back  old  memories,  and  that  night  he 
and  Jane  and  Molly  Culpepper  went  to  Hendricks',  and  he 
played  the  piano  for  an  hour  in  the  firelight,  and  dreamed 
old  dreams.  And  his  hands  fell  into  the  chords  of  a  song 
that  he  sang  as  a  boy,  and  Molly  came  from  the  fire  and 
stood  beside  him  while  they  hummed  the  words  in  a  low 
duet :  — 

"  Let  me  believe  that  you  love  as  you  loved 
Long,  long  ago  —  long  ago." 

But  when  he  went  out  into  the  drizzling  night,  and  he 
and  Jane  left  Molly  at  home,  he  stepped  into  the  whirling 
yellow  world  of  gold  and  grain,  and  drafts  and  checks,  and 
leases  and  mortgages,  and  Heaven  knows  what  of  plots  and 
schemes  and  plans.  So  he  did  not  heed  Jane  when  she 
said,  "  Poor  —  poor  little  Molly,"  but  replied  as  he  latched 
the  Culpepper  gate,  "  Oh,  Molly'll  be  all  right.  You 
can't  mix  business  and  pleasure,  you  know.  Bob  must 
stay." 

And  when  Molly  went  into  the  house,  she  found  her 
mother  waiting  for  her.  The  colonel's  courage  had 
failed  him.  The  mother  took  her  daughter's  hand,  and 
the  two  walked  up  the  broad  stairs  together. 

"Molly,"  said  the  mother,  as  the  girl  listlessly  went 
about  her  preparations  for  bed,  "don't  grieve  so  about 
Bob.  Father  and  John  need  him  there.  It's  business, 
you  know." 

The  daughter  answered,  "  Yes,  I  know,  but  I'm  so  lone 
some —  so  lonesome."  Then  she  sobbed,  "  You  know  he 
hasn't  written  for  a  whole  week,  and  I'm  afraid  —  afraid  !" 

When  the  paroxysm  had  passed,  the  mother  said  :  "  You 
know,  my  dear,  they  need  him  there  a  little  longer,  and 
he  wants  to  come  back.  Your  father  told  me  that  John 
sent  word  to-day  that  you  must  not  let  him  come."  The 
girl's  face  looked  the  pain  that  struck  her  heart,  and  she 
did  not  answer.  "  Molly  dear,"  began  the  mother  again, 
"  can't  you  write  to  Bob  to-morrow  and  urge  him  to  stay 
—  for  me  ?  For  all  of  us  ?  It  is  so  much  to  us  now  — 
for  a  little  while  —  to  have  Bob  there,  sending  back  money 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  127 

for  the  company.  I  don't  know  what  father  would  do 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  company  —  and  John." 

The  daughter  held  her  mother's  hand,  and  after  gasp 
ing  down  a  sob,  promised,  and  then  as  the  sob  kept  tilting 
back  in  her  throat,  she  cried  :  "  But  oh,  mother,  it's  such  a 
big  world  —  so  wide,  and  I  am  so  afraid  —  so  afraid  of 
something  —  I  don't  know  what  —  only  that  I'm  afraid." 

But  the  mother  soothed  her  daughter,  and  they  talked 
of  other  things  until  she  was  quiet  and  drowsy. 

But  when  she  went  to  sleep,  she  dreamed  a  strange 
dream.  The  next  day  she  could  not  untangle  it,  save 
that  with  her  for  hours  as  she  went  about  her  duties  was 
the  odour  of  lilacs,  and  the  face  of  her  lover,  now  a  young 
eager  face  in  pain,  and  then,  by  the  miracle  of  dreams, 
grown  old,  bald  at  the  temples  and  brow,  but  fine  and 
strong  and  clean  —  like  a  boy's  face.  The  face  soon  left 
her,  but  the  smell  of  the  lilacs  was  in  her  heart  for  days  — 
they  were  her  lilacs,  from  the  bushes  in  the  garden. 
As  days  and  weeks  passed,  the  dream  blurred  into  the  gray 
of  her  humdrum  life  and  was  gone.  And  so  that  day  and 
that  night  dropped  from  time  into  eternity,  and  who 
knows  of  all  the  millions  of  stars  that  swarmed  the 
heavens,  what  ones  held  the  wandering  souls  of  the  simple 
people  of  that  bleak  Western  town  as  they  lay  on  their 
pillows  and  dreamed.  For  if  our  waking  hours  are  passed 
in  worlds  so  wide  apart,  who  shall  know  where  we  walk 
in  dreams  ? 

It  is  thirty  years  and  more  now  since  John  Barclay 
dreamed  of  himself  as  the  Wheat  King  of  the  Sycamore 
Valley,  and  in  that  thirty  years  he  had  considerable  time 
to  reflect  upon  the  reasons  why  pride  always  goeth  before 
destruction.  And  he  figured  it  out  that  in  his  particular 
case  he  was  so  deeply  engrossed  in  the  money  he  was 
going  to  make  that  first  year,  that  he  did  not  study  the 
simple  problem  of  wheat-growing  as  he  should  have  studied 
it.  In  those  days  wheat-growing  upon  the  plains  had  not 
yet  become  the  science  it  is  to-day,  and  many  Sycamore 
Valley  farmers  planted  their  wheat  in  the  fall,  and  failed 
to  make  it  pay,  and  many  other  Sycamore  Valley  farmers 


128  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

planted  their  wheat  in  the  spring,  and  failed,  while  many 
others  succeeded.  The  land  had  not  been  definitely 
staked  off  and  set  apart  by  experience  as  a  winter  wheat 
country,  and  so  the  farmers  operating  under  the  Golden 
Belt  Wheat  Company,  in  the  spring  of  1874,  planted  their 
wheat  in  March. 

That  was  a  beautiful  season  on  the  plains.  April  rains 
came,  and  the  great  fields  glowed  green  under  the  mild 
spring  sun.  And  Bob  Hendricks,  collecting  the  money 
from  his  stock  subscriptions,  poured  it  into  the  treasury 
of  the  company,  and  John  Barclay  spent  the  money  for 
seed  and  land  and  men  to  work  the  land,  and  so  confident 
was  he  of  the  success  of  the  plan  that  he  borrowed  every 
dollar  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  and  got  leases  on  more 
land  and  bought  more  seed  and  hired  more  men,  in  the 
belief  that  during  the  summer  Hendricks  could  sell  stock 
enough  to  pay  back  the  loans.  To  Colonel  Culpepper, 
Barclay  gave  a  block  of  five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
the  stock  as  a  bonus  in  addition  to  his  commission  for  his 
work  in  securing  options,  and  the  colonel,  feeling  himself 
something  of  a  capitalist,  and  being  in  funds  from  the 
spring  sale  of  lots  in  College  Heights  addition,  invested 
in  new  clothes,  bought  some  farm  products  in  Missouri, 
and  went  up  and  down  the  earth  proclaiming  the  glories 
of  the  Sycamore  Valley,  and  in  May  brought  two  car-loads 
of  land  seekers  by  stages  and  wagons  and  buggies  to 
Sycamore  Ridge,  and  located  them  in  Garrison  County. 
And  in  his  mail  when  he  came  home  he  found  a  notice 
indicating  that  he  had  overdrawn  his  account  in  the  bank 
five  hundred  dollars,  and  that  his  note  was  due  for  five 
hundred  more  on  the  second  mortgage  which  he  had  given 
the  previous  fall. 

For  two  days  he  was  plunged  in  gloom,  and  Barclay, 
observing^  his  depression  and  worming  out  of  the  colonel 
the  cause,  persuaded  General  Hendricks  to  put  the  over 
draft  and  the  second  mortgage  note  into  one  note  for  a 
thousand  dollars  plus  the  interest  for  sixty  days  until  the 
colonel  could  make  a  turn,  and  after  that  the  colonel 
was  happy  again.  He  forgot  for  a  moment  the  responsi- 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  129 

bility  of  wealth  and  engaged  himself  in  the  task  of  mak 
ing  the  Memorial  Day  celebration  in  Sycamore  Ridge  the 
greatest  event  in  the  history  of  the  town.  Though  there 
were  only  five  soldiers'  graves  to  decorate,  the  longest  pro 
cession  Garrison  County  had  ever  known  wound  up  the 
hill  to  the  cemetery,  and  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper  in  his 
red  sash,  with  his  Knights  Templar  hat  on,  riding  up  and 
down  the  line  on  an  iron-gray  stallion,  was  easily  the 
most  notable  figure  in  the  spectacle.  Even  General  Hen- 
dricks,  revived  by  the  pomp  of  the  occasion,  heading  the 
troop  of  ten  veterans  of  the  Mexican  War,  and  General 
Ward,  in  his  regimentals,  were  inconsequential  compared 
with  the  colonel.  And  his  oration  at  the  graves,  after 
the  bugles  had  blown  taps,  kept  the  multitude  in  tears  for 
half  an  hour.  John  Barclay's  address  at  the  Opera  House 
that  afternoon — the  address  on  "The  Soldier  and  the 
Scholar" — was  so  completely  overshadowed  by  the  colo 
nel's  oratorical  flight  that  Jane  teased  her  husband  about 
the  eclipse  for  a  month,  and  never  could  make  him  laugh. 
Moreover,  the  Banner  that  week  printed  the  colonel's  ora 
tion  in  full  and  referred  to  John's  address  as  "a  few  sen 
sible  remarks  by  Hon.  John  Barclay  on  the  duty  of 
scholarship  in  times  of  peace."  But  here  is  the  strange 
thing  about  it — those  who  read  the  colonel's  oration 
were  not  moved  by  it ;  the  charm  of  the  voice  and  the 
spell  of  the  tall,  handsome,  vigorous  man  and  the  emotion 
of  the  occasion  were  needed  to  make  the  colonel's  oratory- 
move  one.  Still,  opinions  differ  even  about  so  palpable 
a  proposition  as  the  ephemeral  nature  of  the  colonel's 
oratory.  For  the  Banner  that  week  pronounced  it  one  of 
the  classic  oratorical  gems  of  American  eloquence,  and 
the  editor  thereof  brought  a  dozen  copies  of  the  paper 
under  his  arm  when  he  climbed  the  hill  to  Lincoln 
Avenue  the  following  Sunday  night,  and  presented  them 
to  the  women  of  the  Culpepper  household,  whom  he  was 
punctilious  to  call  "the  ladies,"  and  he  assured  Miss 
Molly  and  Mistress  Culpepper — he  was  nice  about  those 
titles  also — that  their  father  and  husband  had  a  great 
future  before  him  in  the  forum. 


130  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

It  may  be  well  to  pause  here  and  present  so  punctilious 
a  gentleman  as  Adrian  Pericles  Brownwell  to  the  reader 
somewhat  more  formally  than  he  has  been  introduced. 
For  he  will  appear  in  this  story  many  times.  In  the  first 
place  he  wore  mustaches — chestnut-coloured  mustaches 
— that  drooped  rather  gracefully  from  his  lip  to  his  jaw, 
and  thence  over  his  coat  lapels  ;  in  the  second  place  he 
always  wore  gloves,  and  never  was  without  a  flower  in 
his  long  frock-coat ;  and  thirdly  he  clicked  his  cane  on 
the  sidewalk  so  regularly  that  his  approach  was  heralded, 
and  the  company  was  prepared  for  the  coming  of  a  serious, 
rather  nervous,  fiery  man,  a  stickler  for  his  social  dues  ; 
and  finally  in  those  days,  those  sombre  days  of  Sycamore 
Ridge  after  the  panic  of  '73,  when  men  had  to  go  to  the 
post-office  to  get  their  ten-dollar  bills  changed,  Brownwell 
had  the  money  to  support  the  character  he  assumed.  He 
had  come  to  the  Ridge  from  the  South,  —  from  that  part 
of  the  South  that  carried  its  pistol  in  its  hip  pocket  and 
made  a  large  and  serious  matter  of  its  honour,  —  that  was 
obvious ;  he  had  paid  Ezra  Lane  two  thousand  dollars  for 
the  Banner,  that  was  a  matter  of  record;  and  he  had 
marched  with  some  grandeur  into  General  Hendricks' 
bank  one  Saturday  and  had  clinked  out  five  thousand 
dollars  in  gold  on  the  marble  slab  at  the  teller's  window, 
and  that  was  a  matter  attested  to  by  a  crowd  of  wit 
nesses.  Watts  McHurdie  used  to  say  that  more  people 
saw  that  deposit  than  could  be  packed  into  the  front 
room  of  the  bank  with  a  collar  stuffer. 

But  why  Adrian  Brownwell  had  come  to  the  Ridge,  and 
where  he  had  made  his  money  —  there  myth  and  fable  enter 
into  the  composition  of  the  narrative,  and  one  man's 
opinion  is  as  good  as  another's.  Curiously  enough,  all  who 
testify  claim  that  they  speak  by  the  authority  of  Mr. 
Brownwell  himself.  But  he  was  a  versatile  and  obliging 
gentleman  withal,  so  it  is  not  unlikely  that  all  those  who 
assembled  him  from  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  into 
Sycamore  Ridge  for  all  the  reasons  in  the  longer  catechism, 
are  telling  the  simple  truth  as  they  have  reason  to  believe 
it.  What  men  know  of  a  certainty  is  that  he  came,  that 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  131 

he  hired  the  bridal  chamber  of  the  Thayer  House  for  a 
year,  and  that  he  contested  John  Barclay's  right  to  be 
known  as  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form  in 
Garrison  County  for  thirty  long  years,  and  then  —  but 
that  is  looking  in  the  back  of  the  book,  which  is  manifestly 
unfair. 

It  is  enough  to  know  now  that  on  that  Sunday  evening 
after  Memorial  Day,  in  1874,  Adrian  P.  Brownwell  sat  on 
the  veranda  of  the  Culpepper  home  slapping  his  lavender 
gloves  on  his  knee  by  way  of  emphasis,  and  told  the  com 
pany  what  he  told  General  Beauregard  and  what  General 
Beauregard  told  him,  at  the  battle  of  Shiloh ;  also  what 
his  maternal  grandfather,  Governor  Papin,  had  said  to 
General  Jackson,  when  his  grandmother,  then  Mademoi 
selle  Dulangpre,  youngest  daughter  of  the  refugee  duke 
of  that  house,  had  volunteered  to  nurse  the  American 
soldiers  in  Jackson's  hospital  after  the  battle  of  New 
Orleans  ;  also,  and  with  detail,  what  his  father,  Congress 
man  Brownwell,  had  said  on  the  capitol  steps  in  December, 
1860,  before  leaving  for  Washington  to  resign  his  seat  in 
Congress ;  and  also  with  much  greater  detail  he  re 
counted  the  size  of  his  ancestral  domain,  the  number  of 
the  ancestral  slaves  and  the  royal  state  of  the  ancestral 
household,  and  then  with  a  grand  wave  of  his  gloves,  and 
a  shrug  of  which  Madam  Papin  might  well  have  been 
proud,  "  But  'tis  all  over  ;  and  we  are  brothers  —  one 
country,  one  flag,  one  God,  one  very  kind  but  very  busy 
God !  "  And  he  smiled  so  graciously  through  his  great 
mustaches,  showing  his  fine  even  teeth,  that  Mrs.  Cul 
pepper,  Methodist  to  the  heart,  smiled  back  and  was  not 
so  badly  shocked  as  she  knew  she  should  have  been. 

"  Is  it  not  so  ?  "  he  asked  with  his  voice  and  his  hands 
at  once.  "  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  addressing  Mrs.  Culpepper 
dramatically,  "  what  better  proof  would  you  have  of  our 
brotherhood  than  our  common  bondage  to  you  ?  How 
ever  dark  the  night  of  our  national  discord  —  to-day, 
North,  South,  East,  West,  we  bask  in  the  sunrise  of  some 
woman's  eyes."  He  fluttered  his  gloves  gayly  toward 
Molly  and  continued  :  — 


132  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

" '  O  when  did  morning  ever  break, 
And  find  such  beaming  eyes  awake.' " 

And  so  he  rattled  on,  and  the  colonel  had  to  poke  his 
words  into  the  conversation  in  wedge-shaped  queries,  and 
Mrs.  Culpepper,  being  in  due  and  proper  awe  of  so  much 
family  and  such  apparent  consequence,  spoke  little  and 
smiled  many  times.  And  if  it  was  "  Miss  Molly "  this 
and  "  Miss  Molly  "  that,  when  the  colonel  went  into  the 
house  to  lock  the  back  doors,  and  "  Miss  Molly  "  the  other 
when  Mrs.  Culpepper  went  in  to  open  the  west  bedroom 
windows  ;  and  even  if  it  was  "  Miss  Molly,  shall  we  go 
down  town  and  refresh  ourselves  with  a  dish  of  ice 
cream  ? "  and  even  if  still  further  a  full-grown  man 
standing  at  the  gate  under  the  May  moon  deftly  nips  a 
rose  from  Miss  Molly's  hair  and  holds  the  rose  in  both 
hands  to  his  lips  as  he  bows  a  good  night — what  then? 
What  were  roses  made  for  and  brown  eyes  and  long  lashes 
and  moons  and  May  winds  heavy  with  the  odour  of  flowers 
and  laden  with  the  faint  sounds  of  distant  herd  bells  tin 
kling  upon  the  hills  ?  For  men  are  bold  at  thirty-five,  and 
maidens,  the  best  and  sweetest,  truest,  gentlest  maidens 
in  all  the  world,  are  shy  at  twenty-one,  and  polite  to  their 
elders  and  betters  of  thirty-five  —  even  when  those  elders 
and  betters  forget  their  years  ! 

As  for  Adrian  P.  Brown  well,  he  went  about  his  daily 
task,  editing  the  Banner,  making  it  as  luscious  and  efful 
gent  as  a  seed  catalogue,  with  rhetorical  pictures  about  as 
Lorid  and  unconvincing.     To  him  the  town  was  a  veritable 
[Troy —  full  of  heroes  and  demigods,  and  honourables  and 
>ersons  of  nobility  and  quality.     He  used  no  adjective  of 
>raise  milder  than  superb,  and  on  the  other  hand,  Lige 
>emis  once  complained  that  the  least  offensive  epithet  he 
saw  in  the  Banner  tacked  after  his  name  for  two  years 
was  miscreant.     As  for  John  Barclay,  he  once  told  Gen 
eral  Ward  that  a  man  could  take  five  dollars  in  to  Brown- 
well  and  come  out  a  statesman,  a  Croesus  or  a  scholar,  as 
the  exigencies  of  the  case  demanded,  and  for  ten  dollars 
he  could  combine  the  three. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  133 

Yet  for  all  that  Brown  well  ever  remained  a  man  apart. 
No  one  thought  of  calling  him  "Ade."  Sooner  would 
one  nickname  a  gargoyle  on  a  tin  cornice.  So  the  editor 
of  the  Banner  never  came  close  to  the  real  heart  of  Syca 
more  Ridge,  and  often  for  months  at  a  time  he  did  not 
know  what  the  people  were  thinking.  And  that  summer 
when  General  Hendricks  was  walking  out  of  the  bank 
every  hour  and  looking  from  under  his  thin,  blue-veined 
hand  at  the  strange  cloud  of  insects  covering  the  sky,  and 
when  Martin  Culpepper  was  predicting  that  the  plague 
of  grasshoppers  would  leave  the  next  day,  and  when  John*\ 
Barclay  was  getting  that  deep  vertical  crease  between  his  I 
eyes  that  made  him  look  forty  while  he  was  still  in  his  | 
twenties,  Adrian  P.  Brownwell  was  chirping  cheerfully 
in  the  Banner  about  the  "  salubrious  climate  of  Garrison 
County,"  and  writing  articles  about  "our  phenomenal 
prospects  for  a  bumper  crop."  And  when  in  the  middle 
of  July  the  grasshoppers  had  eaten  the  wheat  to  the 
ground  and  had  left  the  corn  stalks  stripped  like  bean 
poles,  and  had  devoured  every  green  thing  in  their  path, 
the  Banner  contained  only  a  five-line  item  referring  to 
the  plague  and  calling  it  a  "most  curious  and  unusual 
visitation."  But  that  summer  the  Banner  was  filled 
with  Brownwell's  editorials  on  "  The  Tonic  Effect  of  the 
Prairie  Ozone,"  "  Turn  the  Rascals  Out,"  "  Our  Duty  to 
the  South,"  and  "The  Kingdom  of  Corn."  As  a  writer 
Brownwell  was  what  is  called  "fluent"  and  "genial." 
And  he  was  fond  of  copying  articles  from  the  Topeka 
and  Kansas  City  papers  about  himself,  in  which  he  was 
referred  to  as  "the  gallant  and  urbane  editor  of  the 
Banner. " 

But  then  we  all  have  our  weaknesses,  and  be  it  said 
to  the  everlasting  credit  of  Adrian  Brownwell  that  he 
understood  and  appreciated  Watts  McHurdie  and  Colonel 
Culpepper  better  than  any  other  man  in  town,  and  that  he 
printed  Watts'  poems  on  all  occasions,  and  never  referred 
to  him  as  anything  less  than  "  our  honoured  townsman," 
or  as  "  our  talented  and  distinguished  fellow-citizen," 
and  he  never  laughed  at  General  Ward.  But  the  best 


134  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

he  could  do  for  John  Barclay  —  even  after  John  had 
become  one  of  the  world's  great  captains  —  was  to  wave 
his  gloves  resignedly  and  exclaim,  "  Industry,  thy^  name 
is  Barclay."  And  Barclay  in  return  seemed  never  to 
warm  up  to  Brownwell.  "Colonel,"  replied  John  to 
some  encomium  of  his  old  friend's  upon  the  new  editor, 
"  I'll  say  this  much.  Certainly  your  friend  is  a  prosper 
ous  talker  I " 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  twenty-fifth  of  July,  1874,  is  a  memorable  day  in 
the  life  of  John  Barclay.  For  on  that  day  the  grasshop 
pers  which  had  eaten  off  the  twenty  thousand  acres  of 
wheat  in  the  fields  of  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company, 
as  though  it  had  been  cropped,  rose  and  left  the  Missouri 
Valley.  They  will  never  come  back,  for  they  are  ploughed 
under  in  the  larva  every  year  by  the  Colorado  farmers  who 
have  invaded  the  plains  where  once  the  "  hoppers "  had 
their  nursery;  but  all  this,  even  if  he  had  known  it,  would 
not  have  cheered  up  John  that  day.  For  he  knew  that  he 
owed  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  Eastern 
stockholders  of  the  company,  and  he  had  not  a  dollar  to 
show  for  it.  He  had  expected  to  borrow  the  money  needed 
for  the  harvesting  in  the  fall,  and  over  and  over  and  over 
again  he  had  figured  with  paper  and  pencil  the  amount  of 
his  debt,  and  again  and  again  he  had  tried  to  find  some 
way  to  pay  even  the  interest  on  the  debt  at  six  per  cent, 
which  the  bank  had  guaranteed.  While  the  locusts  were 
devouring  the  vegetation,  he  walked  the  hemp  carpet  that 
ran  diagonally  across  his  office,  and  chased  phantom  after 
phantom  of  hope  that  lured  him  up  to  the  rim  of  a  solution 
of  the  problem,  only  to  push  him  back  into  the  abyss.  He 
walked  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets  and  his 
head  down,  and  as  General  Ward  was  out  organizing  the 
farmers  in  a  revolt  against  the  dominant  party  in  the  state, 
Barclay  was  alone  most  of  the  time.  The  picture  of  that 
barren  office,  with  its  insurance  chromos,  with  its  white,  cob 
web-marked  walls,  with  its  dirty  floor  partly  covered  with 
an  "  X "  of  red-bordered  hemp  carpet  reaching  from  the 
middle  to  the  four  corners,  the  picture  of  the  four  tall  un 
washed  windows  letting  in  the  merciless  afternoon  sun  to 
fade  the  grimy  black  and  white  lithograph  of  William 

135 


136  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

Lloyd  Garrison  above  the  general's  desk,  never  left  John 
Barclay's  memory.  It  was  like  a  cell  on  a  prisoner's  mind. 

As  he  paced  the  room  that  last  day  of  the  visit  of  the 
grasshoppers,  General  Hendricks  came  in.  His  hair  had 
whitened  in  the  summer.  The  panic  and  the  plague  of  the 
locusts  had  literally  wrung  the  sap  out  of  his  nerves.  Old 
age  was  pressing  inexorably  upon  him,  palsying  his  hands 
on  its  rack,  tripping  his  feet  in  its  helpless  mazes.  His 
dimmed  eyes  could  see  only  ruin  coming,  coming  slowly 
and  steadily  toward  him.  In  the  panic,  it  came  suddenly 
and  inspired  fight  in  him.  But  this  year  there  was  some 
thing  diabolical  in  its  resistless  approach.  So  he  shrank 
from  his  impending  fate  as  a  child  trembles  at  some  un 
known  terror.  But  Barclay  did  not  swerve.  He  knew 
the  affairs  of  the  bank  fairly  well.  He  was  a  director  who 
never  signed  the  quarterly  statement  without  verifying 
every  item  for  himself.  He  had  dreaded  the  general's 
visit,  yet  he  knew  that  it  must  come,  and  he  pulled  toward 
the  general  a  big  hickory  chair.  The  old  man  sank  into 
it  and  looked  helplessly  into  the  drawn  hard  face  of  the 
younger  man  and  sighed,  "  Well,  John  ?  " 

Barclay  stood  before  him  a  second  and  then  walked 
down  one  arm  of  the  "  X  "  of  the  carpet  and  back,  and  up 
another,  and  then  turned  to  Hendricks  with  :  "  Now,  don't 
lose  your  nerve,  General.  You've  got  to  keep  your  nerve. 
That's  about  all  the  asset  we've  got  now,  I  guess." 

The  general  replied  weakly :  "I  —  I,  I  —  I  guess 
you're  right,  John.  I  suppose  that's  about  it." 

"  How  do  you  figure  it  out,  General  ?  "  asked  Barclay, 
still  walking  the  carpet. 

The  general  fumbled  for  a  paper  in  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  Barclay.  He  took  it,  glanced  at  it  a  moment, 
and  then  said  :  "  I'm  no  good  at  translating  another  man's 
figures  —  how  is  it  in  short  ?  —  Right  down  to  bed-rock  ?  " 

Hendricks  seemed  to  pull  himself  together  and  replied: 
"  Well,  something  like  ten  thousand  in  cash  against  seventy 
thousand  in  deposits,  and  fifty  thousand  of  that  time  de 
posits,  due  next  October,  you  know,  on  the  year's  agree 
ment.  Of  the  ten  thousand  cash,  four  thousand  belongs 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  137 

to  Brownwell,  and  is  on  check,  and  you  have  two  thousand 
on  check." 

"  All  right.     Now,  General,  what  do  you  owe  ?  " 

"Well,  you  know  that  guarantee  of  your  and  Bob's 
business  —  that  nine  thousand.  It's  due  next  week." 

"  And  it  will  gut  you  ?  "  asked  Barclay. 

The  old  man  nodded  and  sighed.  Barclay  limped  care 
fully  all  over  his  "  X,"  swinging  himself  on  his  heels  at  the 
turns;  his  mouth  was  hardening,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  old  man  without  blinking  as  he  said:  "General  — 
that's  got  to  come.  If  it  busts  you  —  it  will  save  us,  and 
we  can  save  you  after.  That  has  just  absolutely  got  to  be 
paid,  right  on  the  dot." 

The  old  man  could  not  have  turned  paler  than  he  was 
when  he  entered  the  room,  but  he  rose  halfway  in  his 
chair  and  shook  his  leonine  head,  and  then  let  his  hands  fall 
limply  on  his  knees  as  he  cried:  "No — no,  John  —  I 
can't.  I  can't." 

Barclay  put  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  old  man's  chair, 
and  he  could  feel  the  firm  hard  grip  of  the  boy  through  his 
whole  frame.  Then  after  a  moment's  pause  Barclay  said: 
"  General,  I'm  in  earnest  about  that.  You  will  either 
mail  those  dividend  certificates  according  to  your  guaran 
tee  on  the  first,  or  as  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven  I'll 
see  that  you  won't  have  a  dollar  in  your  bank  on  the  night 
of  the  second." 

The  old  man  stood  gasping.  The  eyes  of  the  two  men 
met.  Barclay's  were  bold  and  green  and  blazing. 

"Boy!  Boy!  Boy!—"  the  old  man  faltered.  "Don't 
ruin  me  !  Don't  ruin  me  —  "  he  did  not  finish  the  sentence, 
but  sank  into  his  chair,  and  dropped  his  face  to  his  breast 
and  repeated,  "  Don't,  don't,  don't,"  feebly  for  a  few  times, 
without  seeming  to  realize  what  he  was  saying.  From 
some  outpost  of  his  being  reinforcements  came.  For  he 
rose  suddenly,  and  shaking  his  haggard  fist  at  the  youth, 
exclaimed  in  a  high,  furious,  cracking  voice  as  he  panted 
and  shook  his  great  hairy  head  :  "  No  —  by  God,  no,  by 
God,  no !  You  damned  young  cut-throat  —  you  can  break 
my  bank,  but  you  can't  bulldoze  me.  No,  by  God  — no  I  " 


138  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

He  started  to  leave  the  room.  Barclay  caught  the  old 
man  and  swung  him  into  a  chair.  The  flint  that  Barclay's 
nature  needed  had  been  struck.  His  face  was  aglow  as 
with  an  inspiration. 

"  Listen,  man,  listen!  "  Barclay  cried.  "  I'm  not  going 
to  break  your  bank,  I'm  trying  to  save  it."  He  knew  that 
the  plan  was  ripe  in  his  head,  and  as  he  talked  it  out,  some 
thing  stood  beside  him  and  marvelled  at  its  perfection. 
As  its  inherent  dishonesty  revealed  itself,  the  old  man's 
face  flinched,  but  Barclay  went  on  unfolding  his  scheme. 
It  required  General  Hendricks  to  break  the  law  half  a 
dozen  ways,  and  to  hazard  all  of  the  bank's  assets,  and  all 
of  its  cash.  And  it  required  him  to  agree  not  to  lend  a 
dollar  to  any  man  in  the  county  except  as  he  complied 
with  the  demands  of  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company  and 
mortgaged  his  farm  to  Barclay.  The  plan  that  Barclay 
set  forth  literally  capitalized  the  famine  that  had  followed 
the  grasshopper  invasion,  and  sold  the  people  their  own 
need  at  Barclay's  price.  Then  for  an  hour  the  two  men 
fought  it  out,  and  at  the  end  Barclay  was  saying:  "  I  am 
glad  you  see  it  that  way,  and  I  believe,  as  you  do,  that 
they  will  take  it  a  little  better  if  we  also  agree  to  pay  this 
year's  taxes  on  the  land  they  put  under  the  mortgage.  It 
would  be  a  great  sweetener  to  some  of  them,  and  I  can  slip 
in  an  option  to  sell  the  land  to  us  outright  as  a  kind  of  a 
joker  in  small  type."  His  brassy  eyes  were  small  and 
beady  as  his  brain  worked  out  the  details  of  his  plan. 
He  put  his  hands  affectionately  on  General  Hendricks' 
shoulders  as  he  added,  "  You  mustn't  forget  to  write  to 
Bob,  General;  hold  him  there  whatever  comes." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the  two  men  could  hear  the 
heavy  tread  of  Colonel  Culpepper.  As  Hendricks  went 
down  the  stairs  John  heard  the  colonel's  "  Mornin',  Gen 
eral,"  as  the  two  men  passed  in  the  hallway. 

"Mornin',  Johnnie — how  does  your  cor.porocity  sa- 
gashiate  this  mornin'  ?  "  asked  the  colonel. 

Barclay  looked  at  the  colonel  through  little  beady  green 
eyes  and  replied,  —  he  knew  not  what.  He  merely  dipped 
an  oar  into  the  talk  occasionally,  he  did  not  steer  it,  and 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  139 

not  until  he  emerged  from  his  calculations  twenty  minutes 
after  the  colonel's  greeting  did  Barclay  realize  that  the 
colonel  was  in  great  pain.  He  was  saying  when  Barclay's 
mind  took  heed:  "  And  now,  sir,  I  say,  now,  having  forced 
his  unwelcome  and,  I  may  say,  filthy  lucre  upon  me,  the 
impudent  scalawag  writes  me  to-day  to  say  that  I  must 
liquidate,  must  —  liquidate,  sir  ;  in  short,  pay  up.  I  call 
that  impertinence.  But  no  matter  what  I  call  it,  he's 
going  to  foreclose."  Barclay's  eyes  opened  to  attention. 
The  colonel  went  on.  "  The  original  indebtedness  was  a 
matter  of  ten  thousand  —  you  will  remember,  John,  that's 
what  I  paid  for  my  share  of  the  College  Heights  property, 
and  while  I  have  disposed  of  some,  —  in  point  of  fact  sold 
it  at  considerable  profit,  —  yet,  as  you  know,  and  as  this 
scoundrel  knows,  for  I  have  written  him  pointedly  to  that 
effect,  I  have  been  temporarily  unable  to  remit  any  sum 
substantial  enough  to  justify  bothering  him  with  it.  But 
now  the  scamp,  the  grasping  insulting  brigand,  notifies  me 
that  unless  I  pay  him  when  the  mortgage  is  due,  —  to  be 
plain,  sir,  next  week,  — he  proposes  to  foreclose  on  me." 

The  colonel's  brows  were  knit  with  trouble.  His  voice 
faltered  as  he  added:  "And,  John  —  John  Barclay,  my 
good  friend  —  do  you  realize  that  that  little  piece  of  prop 
erty  out  on  the  hill  is  all  I  have  on  earth  now,  except  the 
roof  over  my  head  ?  And  may  —  "  here  his  voice  slid  into 
a  tenor  with  pent-up  emotion  —  "maybe  the  contemptible 
rapscallion  will  try  to  get  that."  The  colonel  had  risen 
and  was  pacing  the  floor.  "  What  a  damn  disreputable 
business  your  commerce  is,  anyway!  John,  I  can't  afford 
to  lose  that  property  —  or  I'd  be  a  pauper,  sir,  a  pauper 
peddling  organs  and  sewing-machines  and  maybe  teaching 
singing-school."  The  colonel's  face  caught  a  rift  of  sun 
shine  as  he  added,  "  You  know  I  did  that  once  before  I  was 
married  and  came  West  —  taught  singing-school." 

"  Well,  Colonel  —  let's  see  about  it,"  said  Barclay,  ab 
sently.  And  the  two  men  sat  at  the  table  and  figured 
up  that  the  colonel's  liabilities  were  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  twelve  thousand,  of  which  ten  thousand  were  pressing 
and  the  rest  more  or  less  imminent.  At  the  end  of  their 


140  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

conference,  Barclay's  mind  was  still  full  of  his  own  affairs. 
But  lie  said,  after  looking  a  moment  at  the  troubled  face 
of  the  big  black-eyed  man  whose  bulk  towered  above  him, 
"  Well,  Colonel,  I  don't  know  what  under  heavens  I  can 
do  —  but  I'll  do  what  I  can." 

The  colonel  did  not  feel  Barclay's  abstraction.  But 
the  colonel's  face  cleared  like  a  child's,  and  he  reached 
for  the  little  man  and  hugged  him  off  his  feet.  Then  the 
colonel  broke  out,  "May  the  Lord,  who  heedeth  the 
sparrow's  fall  and  protects  all  us  poor  blundering  children, 
bless  you,  John  Barclay — bless  you  and  all  your  house 
hold."  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  waved  a  grand 
adieu  at  the  door,  and  he  whistled  "  Gay ly  the  Troubadour  " 
as  he  tripped  lightly  down  the  stairs.  And  in  another 
moment  the  large  white  plumes  were  dancing  in  his  eyes 
again.  This  time  they  waved  and  beckoned  toward  a  sub 
scription  paper  which  the  colonel  had  just  drawn  up  when 
the  annoying  letter  came  from  Chicago,  reminding  him  of 
his  debt.  The  paper  was  for  the  relief  of  a  farmer 
whose  house  and  stock  had  been  burned.  The  colonel 
brought  from  his  hip  pocket  the  carefully  folded  sheet 
of  foolscap  which  he  had  put  away  when  duty  called  him 
to  Barclay.  He  paused  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair,  backed 
the  paper  on  the  wall,  and  wrote  under  the  words  set 
ting  forth  the  farmer's  destitution,  "  Martin  Culpepper  — 
twenty-five  dollars."  He  stood  a  moment  in  the  stairway 
looking  into  the  street;  the  day  was  fair  and  beautiful; 
the  grasshoppers  were  gone,  and  with  them  went  all  the 
vegetation  in  the  landscape;  but  the  colonel  in  his  nankeen 
trousers  and  his  plaited  white  shirt  and  white  suspenders, 
under  his  white  Panama  hat,  felt  only  the  influence  of  the 
genial  air.  So  he  drew  out  the  subscription  paper  again 
and  erased  the  twenty-five  dollars  and  put  down  thirty- 
five  dollars.  Then  as  Oscar  Fernald  and  Daniel  Frye 
came  by  with' long  faces  the  colonel  hailed  them. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  "  fellow  named  Haskins  down  in  Fair- 
view,  with  nine  children  and  a  sick  wife,  got  burnt  out 
last  night,  and  I'm  kind  of  seeing  if  we  can't  get  him  some 
lumber  and  groceries  and  things.  I  want  you  boys,"  the 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  141 

colonel  saw  the  clouds  gathering  and  smiled  to  brush 
them  away,  "  yes,  I  want  you  boys  to  give  me  ten  dollars 
apiece." 

"  Ten  dollars  !  "  cried  Fernald. 

"  Ten  dollars  !  "  echoed  Frye.  "  My  Lord,  man,  there 
isn't  ten  dollars  in  cash  between  here  and  the  Missouri 
River !  " 

"  But  the  man  and  his  children  will  starve,  and  his  wife 
will  die  of  neglect." 

"  That's  the  Lord's  affair  —  and  yours,  Mart,"  returned 
Fernald,  as  he  broke  away  from  the  colonel's  grasp  ;  "  you 
and  He  brought  them  here."  Frye  went  with  Oscar,  and 
they  left  the  colonel  with  his  subscription  paper  in  his 
hand.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  street  and  then  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  put  the  paper  against  the  wall  again  and 
sighed  as  he  erased  the  thirty -five  dollars  and  put  down 
fifty  dollars  after  his  name.  Then  he  started  for  the  bank 
to  see  General  Hendricks.  The  large  white  plumes  were 
still  dancing  in  his  eyes. 

But  so  far  as  Barclay  is  concerned  the  colonel  never 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  for  Barclay  had  his  desk 
covered  with  law-books  and  was  looking  up  contracts. 
In  an  hour  he  had  a  draft  of  a  mortgage  and  option  to  buy 
the  mortgaged  land  written  out,  and  was  copying  it  for 
the  printer.  He  took  it  to  the  Banner  office  and  asked 
Brown  well  to  put  two  men  on  the  job,  and  to  have  the 
proof  ready  by  the  next  morning. 

Brownwell  waved  both  hands  magnificently  and  with 
much  grace,  and  said  :  "  Mr.  Barclay,  we  will  put  three 
men  on  the  work,  sir,  and  if  you  will  do  me  the  honour,  I 
will  be  pleased  to  bring  the  proof  up  Lincoln  Avenue  to 
the  home  of  our  mutual  friend,  Colonel  Culpepper,  where 
you  may  see  it  to-night."  Barclay  fancied  that  a  compla 
cent  smile  wreathed  Brownwell's  face  at  the  prospect  of 
going  to  the  Culpeppers',  and  the  next  instant  the  man 
was  saying :  "  Charming  young  lady,  Miss  Molly  !  Ah, 
the  ladies,  the  ladies  —  they  will  make  fools  of  us.  We 
can't  resist  them."  He  shrugged  and  smirked  and  wiggled 
his  fingers  and  played  with  his  mustaches.  "  Wine  and 


142  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

women  and  song,  you  know  —  they  get  us  all.  But  as  for 
me  — no  wine,  no  song  — but  —  "  he  finished  the  sentence 
with  another  flourish. 

Barclay  did  what  he  could  to  smile  good-naturedly  and 
assent  in  some  sort  of  way  as  he  got  out  of  the  room. 
That  night,  going  up  the  hill,  he  said  to  Jane  :  "  Brown- 
well  is  one  of  those  fellows  who  regard  all  women  —  all 
females  is  better,  probably  —  as  a  form  of  vice.  He's  the 
kind  that  coos  like  a  pouter  pigeon  when  he  talks  to  a 
woman." 

Jane  replied  :  "  Yes,  we  women  know  them.  They  are 
always  claiming  that  men  like  you  are  not  gallant  !  "  She 
added,  "  You  know,  John,  he's  the  jealous,  fiendish  kind 
—  with  an  animal's  idea  of  honour."  They  walked  on  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  and  she  pressed  his  arm  to  her  side 
and  their  eyes  met  in  a  smile.  Then  she  said  :  "  Doubt 
less  some  women  like  that  sort  of  thing,  or  it  would  perish, 
but  I  don't  like  to  be  treated  like  a  woman  —  a  she-crea 
ture.  I  like  to  be  thought  of  as  a  human  being  with  a  soul. " 
She  shuddered  and  continued  :  "But  the  soul  doesn't  enter 
even  remotely  into  his  scheme  of  things.  We  are  just 
bodies." 

The  Barclays  did  not  stay  late  at  the  Culpeppers'  that 
night,  but  took  the  proofs  at  early  bedtime  and  went 
down  the  hill.  An  hour  later  they  heard  Molly  Culpepper 
and  Brownwell  loitering  along  the  sidewalk.  Brownwell 
was  saying  :  — 

"  Ah,  but  you,  Miss  Molly,  you  are  like  the  moon,  for  — 

"  *  The  moon  looks  on  many  brooks, 
The  brook  can  see  no  moon  but  this.' 

And  I  —  I  am  —  " 

The  Barclays  did  not  hear  what  he  was  ;  however,  they 
guessed,  and  they  guessed  correctly  —  so  far  as  that  goes. 
But  Molly  Culpepper  did  hear  what  he  was  and  what  he 
had  been  and  what  he  would  be,  and  the  more  she  parried 
him,  the  closer  he  came.  There  were  times  when  he  forgot 
the  "  Miss "  before  the  "  Molly,"  and  there  were  other 
times  when  she  had  to  slip  her  hand  from  his  ever  so 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  143 

deftly.  And  ODCO  when  they  were  walking  over  a  smooth 
new  wooden  sidewalk  coming  home,  he  caught  her  swiftly 
by  the  waist  and  began  waltzing  and  humming  "  The  Blue 
Danube."  And  at  the  end  of  the  smooth  walk,  she  had  to 
step  distinctly  away  from  him  to  release  his  arm.  But 
she  was  twenty-one,  and  one  does  not  always  know  how  to 
do  things  at  twenty-one  —  even  when  one  intends  to  do 
them,  and  intends  strongly  and  earnestly  —  that  one  would 
do  at  forty-one,  and  so  as  they  stood  under  the  Culpepper 
elm  by  the  gate  that  night,  —  under  the  elm,  stripped  gaunt 
and  naked  by  the  locusts,  —  and  the  July  moon  traced  the 
skeleton  of  the  tree  upon  the  close-cropped  sod,  we  must 
not  blame  Molly  Culpepper  too  much  even  if  she  let  him 
hold  her  hand  a  moment  too  long  after  he  had  kissed  it  a 
formal  good  night ;  for  twenty-one  is  not  as  strong  as  its 
instincts.  It  is  such  a  little  while  to  learn  all  about  a 
number  of  important  things  in  a  big  and  often  wicked 
world  that  when  a  little  man  or  a  little  woman,  so  new  to 
this  earth  as  twenty-one  years,  gets  a  finger  pinched  in  the 
ruthless  machinery,  it  is  a  time  for  tears  and  mothering 
and  not  for  punishment.  And  so  when  Adrian  Brownwell 
pulled  the  little  girl  off  her  feet  and  kissed  her  and  asked 
her  to  marry  him  all  in  a  second,  and  she  could  only 
struggle  and  cry  "  No,  no! "  and  beg  him  to  let  her  go  —  it 
is  not  a  time  to  frown,  but  instead  a  time  to  go  back  to 
our  twenty-ones  and  blush  a  little  and  sigh  a  little,  and 
maybe  cry  and  lie  a  little,  and  in  the  end  thank  God  for  the 
angel  He  sent  to  guard  us,  and  if  the  angel  slept  —  thank 
God  still  for  the  charity  that  has  come  to  us. 

The  next  day  John  Barclay  had  Colonel  Martin  Cul 
pepper  and  Lige  Bemis  in  his  office  galvanizing  them  with 
his  enthusiasm  and  coaching  them  in  their  task.  They 
were  to  promise  three  dollars  an  acre,  August  15,  to 
every  farmer  who  would  put  a  mortgage  on  his  land  for 
six  dollars  an  acre.  The  other  three  dollars  was  to  cover 
the  amount  paid  by  Barclay  as  rent  for  the  land  the  year 
before.  They  were  also  to  offer  the  landowner  a  dol 
lar  and  a  half  an  acre  to  plough  and  plant  the  land 
by  September  15,  and  another  dollar  to  cultivate  it 


144  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

ready  for  the  harvest,  and  the  company  was  to  pay  the 
taxes  on  the  land  and  furnish  the  seed.  Barclay  had 
figured  out  the  seed  money  from  the  sale  of  the  mortgages. 
The  man  was  a  dynamo  of  courage  and  determination,  and 
he  charged  the  two  men  before  him  until  they  fairly 
prickled  with  the  scheme.  He  talked  in  short  hard  sen 
tences,  going  over  and  over  his  plan,  drilling  them  to  bear 
down  on  the  hard  times  and  that  there  would  be  no  other 
buyers  or  renters  for  the  land,  and  to  say  that  the  bank 
would  not  lend  a  dollar  except  in  this  way.  Long  after 
they  had  left  his  office,  Barclay's  voice  haunted  them. 
His  face  was  set  and  his  eyes  steady  and  small,  and  the 
vertical  wrinkle  in  his  brow  was  as  firm  as  an  old  scar. 
He  limped  about  the  room  quickly,  but  his  strong  foot 
thumped  the  floor  with  a  thud  that  punctuated  his  words. 

They  left,  and  he  sat  down  to  write  a  letter  to  Bob 
Hendricks  telling  him  the  plan.  He  had  finished  two 
pages  when  General  Hendricks  came  in  a-tremble  and 
breathless.  The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  Hendricks 
replied :  — 

"  It's  Brownwell  —  the  fat's  in  the  fire,  John.  Brown- 
well's  going !  " 

"Going — going  where?"  asked  the  man  at  the  desk, 
blankly. 

"  Going  to  leave  town.  He's  been  in  and  given  notice 
that  he  wants  his  money  in  gold  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Well  —  well !  "  exclaimed  Barclay,  with  his  eyes  star 
ing  dumbly  at  nothing  on  the  dingy  white  wall  before 
him.  "  Well  —  don't  that  beat  the  Jews  ?  Going  to  leave 
town  I "  He  pulled  himself  together  and  gripped  his 
chair  as  he  said,  "Not  by  a  damn  sight  he  ain't.  He's 
going  to  stay  right  here  and  sweat  it  out.  We  need  that 
four  thousand  dollars  in  our  business.  No,  you  don't, 
Mr.  Man  — "  he  addressed  a  hypothetical  Brownwell. 
"  You're  roped  and  tied  and  bucked  and  gagged,  and  you 
stay  here."  Then  he  said,  "You  go  on  over  to  the  bank, 
General,  and  I'll  take  care  of  Brownwell."  Barclay  liter 
ally  shoved  the  older  man  to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it 
he  said,  "  Send  me  up  a  boy  if  you  see  one  on  the  street." 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  145 

In  ten  minutes  Brownwell  was  running  up  the  stairs  to 
Barclay's  office  in  response  to  his  note.  He  brought  a 
copy  of  the  mortgage  with  him,  and  laid  it  before  Barclay, 
who  went  over  it  critically.  He  found  a  few  errors  and 
marked  them,  and  holding  it  in  his  hands  turned  to  the 
editor. 

"  Hendricks  says  you  are  going  to  leave  town.  Why  ?  " 
asked  Barclay,  bluntly.  He  had  discovered  even  that 
early  in  life  that  a  circuitous  man  is  generally  knocked  off 
his  guard  by  a  rush.  Brownwell  blinked  and  sputtered  a 
second  or  two,  scrambling  to  his  equilibrium.  Before  he 
could  parry  Barclay  assaulted  him  again  with  :  "  Starving 
to  death,  eh  ?  Lost  your  grip  —  going  back  to  Alabama 
with  the  banjo  on  your  knee,  are  you?  " 

"  No,  sir  —  no,  sir,  you  are  entirely  wrong,  sir —  entirely 
wrong,  and  scarcely  more  polite,  either."  Brownwell 
paused  a  minute  and  added :  "  Business  is  entirely  satis 
factory,  sir  —  entirely  so.  It  is  another  matter."  He 
hesitated  a  moment  and  added,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smirk, 
"  A  matter  of  sentiment  —  for  — 

"  '  The  heart  that  is  soonest  awake  to  the  flowers, 
Is  always  the  first  to  be  touched  by  the  thorns.'  " 

Brownwell  sat  there  flipping  his  gloves,  exasperatingly; 
Barclay  screwed  up  his  eyes,  put  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
suddenly  a  flash  came  into  his  face  and  he  exclaimed, 
"  Come  off,  you  don't  mean  it  —  not  Molly  !  " 

The  rejected  one  inclined  his  head.  Barclay  was  about 
to  laugh,  but  instead  he  said,  "Well,  you  are  not  a  quitter  ; 
why  don't  you  go  ahead  and  get  her  ? "  He  glanced 
instinctively  at  his  letter  to  Bob  Hendricks,  and  as  if  to 
shield  what  he  was  going  to  say,  put  a  paper  over  the 
page,  and  then  the  seriousness  of  the  situation  came  over 
him.  "  You  know  women  ;  cheer  up,  man  —  try  again. 
Stick  to  it  —  you'll  win,"  cried  Barclay.  The  fool  might 
go  for  so  small  a  reason.  It  was  no  time  for  ribaldry. 
"  Let  me  tell  you  something,"  he  went  on.  His  eyes 
opened  again  with  a  steady  ruthless  purpose  in  them,  that 
the  man  before  him  was  too  intent  on  his  own  pose  to  see. 


146  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

Barclay  put  a  weight  upon  the  white  sheet  of  paper  that 
he  had  spread  over  his  letter  to  Bob  Hendricks  and  then 
went  on.  "  Say,  Brownwell,  let  me  tell  you  something. 
This  town  is  right  in  the  balance  ;  you  can  help."  Some 
thing  seemed  to  hold  Barclay  back,  but  he  took  the  plunge. 
"  You  can  stay  here  and  help.  We  need  men  like  you." 
Then  he  took  a  blind  shot  in  the  dark  before  going  on  — 
perhaps  to  give  himself  another  chance.  "  Have  you  got 
any  more  of  that  buried  money  —  I  mean  more  than  you  gave 
General  Hendricks  —  the  kind  that  you  dug  up  after  the 
war  and  scratched  the  mould  off  the  eagles  ?  " 

Brownwell  flushed  and  replied,  as  he  put  one  hand  in  his 
coat  and  the  other,  with  his  stick  and  hat  and  gloves,  be 
hind  him  :  "  That  is  my  affair,  sir.  However,  I  will  say 
that  I  have." 

"I  thought  so,"  retorted  Barclay.  "Now  look  here, 
bring  it  to  the  Ridge.  Here's  the  place  to  invest  it  and  now's 
the  everlasting  time.  You  jump  in  here  and  help  us  out,  help 
build  up  the  town,  and  there's  nothing  too  good  for  you." 
Barclay  was  ready  for  it  now.  He  did  not  flinch,  but  went 
on  :  "Also  here's  your  chance  to  help  Colonel  Culpepper. 
He's  to  be  closed  out,  and  ten  thousand  would  save  him. 
You  know  the  kind  of  a  man  the  colonel  is.  Stay  with 
the  game,  Mr.  Man,  stay  with  the  game."  He  saw  Brown- 
well's  eyes  twitch.  Barclay  knew  he  had  won.  He  added 
slowly,  "  You  understand  ?  " 

Brownwell  smiled  benignly.  Barclay  looked  nervously  at 
the  unfinished  letter  on  the  table.  Brownwell  waved  his 
arms  again  dramatically,  and  replied  :  "  Ah,  thank  you 
—  thank  you.  I  shall  play  my  hand  out  —  and  hearts 
are  trumps  —  are  they  not  ?  "  And  he  went  out  almost 
dancing  for  joy. 

When  the  man  was  gone  Barclay  shuddered;  his  con 
tempt  for  Brownwell  was  one  of  the  things  he  prided  him 
self  on,  and  the  intrigue  revolted  him.  He  stood  a  moment 
at  the  window  looking  into  the  street  absently.  He  became 
conscious  that  some  one  was  smiling  at  him  on  the  crossing 
below.  Then  automatically  he  heard  himself  say,  "  Oh, 
Molly,  can  you  run  up  a  minute  ?  "  And  a  moment  later  she 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  147 

wag  in  the  room.  She  was  a  bewitching  little  body  in  her 
wi/le  skirts  and  her  pancake  of  a  hat  with  a  feather  in  it 
as  she  sat  there  looking  at  her  toes  that  morning,  with  her 
bright  eyes  flashing  up  into  his  like  rockets.  But  there  were 
lines  under  the  eyes,  and  the  rims  of  the  eyelids  were  al 
most  red  —  as  red  as  pretty  eyelids  ever  may  be.  Barclay 
went  right  to  the  midst  of  the  matter  at  once.  He  did  not 
patronize  her,  but  told  her  in  detail  just  the  situation — 
how  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company's  interest  must  be 
met  by  the  bank  under  its  guarantee,  or  Bob  and  his  father 
would  be  worse  than  bankrupts,  they  would  be  criminals. 
He  put  Bob  always  in  the  foreground.  Barclay  unfolded  to 
her  all  the  plans  for  going  ahead  with  the  work,  and  he  told 
her  what  they  were  doing  for  her  father  by  giving  him 
employment.  He  marched  straight  up  to  the  matter  in 
hand  without  flinching. 

"Molly,"  he  began  without  batting  his  eyes,  "here  is 
where  you  come  in.  That  fellow  Brownwell  was  up  here 
this  morning.  Oh,  you  needn't  shiver  —  I  know  all  about 
it.  You  had  the  honour  of  refusing  him  last  night."  To 
her  astonished,  hurt  face  he  paid  no  heed,  but  went  on: 
"  Now  he's  going  to  leave  town  on  account  of  you  and  pull 
out  four  thousand  dollars  he's  got  in  the  bank.  If  he  does 
that,  we  can't  pay  our  guarantee.  You've  got  to  call  him 
back."  She  flared  up  as  if  to  stop  him,  but  he  went  on  : 
"  Oh,  I  know,  Molly  Culpepper  —  but  this  is  no  game  of 
London  Bridge.  It's  bad  enough,  but  it's  business — cold 
clammy  business,  and  sometimes  we  have  to  do  things  in  this 
world  for  the  larger  good.  That  man  simply  can't  leave 
this  town  and  you  must  hold  him.  It's  ruin  and  perhaps 
prison  to  Bob  and  his  father  if  he  goes  ;  and  as  for  your 
own  father  and  mother  —  it  makes  them  paupers,  Molly. 
There's  no  other  way  out  of  it."  He  paused  a  moment. 

The  girl's  face  blanched,  and  she  looked  at  the  floor  and 
spoke,  "  And  Bob  — when  can  he  come  back?  " 

"I  don't  know,  Molly — but  not  now — he  never  was 
needed  there  as  he  is  now.  It's  a  life-and-death  matter, 
Molly  Culpepper,v  with  every  creature  on  earth  that's 
nearest  and  dearest  to  you  —  it  makes  or  breaks  us. 


\ 


148  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

It's  a  miserable  business,  I  know  well  —  but  your  duty  is 
to  act  for  the  larger  good.  You  can't  afford  to  send  Bob 
to  jail  and  your  people  to  the  poorhouse  just  because  —  " 

The  girl  looked  up  piteously  and  then  cried  out :  "  Oh, 
John  —  don't,  don't  —  I  can't.  It's  awful,  John — I  can't." 

"  But,  Molly,"  he  replied  as  gently  as  he  could,  "  you 
must.  You  can't  afford  to  be  squeamish  about  this  busi 
ness.  This  is  a  woman's  job,  Molly,  not  a  child's." 

She  rose  and  looked  at  him  a  fleeting  moment  as  if  in 
search  of  some  mercy  in  his  face.  Then  she  looked  away. 
He  stood  beside  her,  barring  her  way  to  the  door.  "  But 
you'll  try,  Molly,  won't  you  —  you'll  try  ?  "  he  cried.  She 
looked  at  him  again  with  begging  eyes  and  stepped  around 
him,  and  said  breathlessly  as  she  reached  the  door  :  "  Oh, 
I  don't  know,  John  —  I  don't  know.  I  must  think  about 
it." 

She  felt  her  way  down  the  stairs,  and  stopped  a  minute 
to  compose  herself  before  she  crossed  the  street  and  walked 
wearily  up  the  hill. 

That  night  at  supper  Colonel  Culpepper  addressed  the 
assembled  family  expansively.  "  The  ravens,  my  dears, 
the  ravens.  Behold  Elijah  fed  by  the  sacred  birds.  By 
Adrian  P.  Brownwell,  to  be  exact.  This  morning  I  went 
down  town  with  the  sheriff  selling  the  roof  over  our  heads. 
This  afternoon  who  should  come  to  me  soliciting  the  pleas 
ure  of  lending  me  money — who,  I  say,  but  Adrian  P. 
Brownwell?" 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  didn't  keep  him  standing,"  put  in 
Buchanan. 

"  My  son,"  responded  the  colonel,  as  he  whetted  the 
carving  knife  on  the  steel  —  a  form  which  was  used  more 
for  rhetorical  effect  than  culinary  necessity,  as  there  were 
pork  chops  on  the  platter,  "  my  son,  no  true  gentleman  will 
rebuke  another  who  is  trying  to  lend  him  money.  Always 
remember  that."  And  the  colonel's  great  body  shook 
with  merriment,  as  he  proceeded  to  fill  up  the  plates. 
But  one  plate  went  from  the  table  untouched,  and  Molly 
Culpepper  went  about  her  work  with  a  leaden  heart.  For 
the  world  had  become  a  horrible  phantasm  to  her,  a  place 


A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  149 

of  fonging  and  of  heartache,  a  place  of  temptation  and 
trial,  lying  under  the  shadow  of  tragedy.  And  whose 
world  was  it  that  night,  as  she  sat  chattering  with  her 
father  and  the  man  she  feared,  whose  world  was  it  that 
night,  if  this  is  a  real  world,  and  not  the  shadow  of  a 
dream?  Was  it  the  colonel's  gay  world,  or  John's  golden 
world,  or  Ward's  harmonious  world,  or  poor  little  Molly's 
world — all  askew  with  miserable  duties  and  racking 
heartaches,  and  grinning  sneering  fears,  with  the  relent 
less  image  of  the  Larger  Good  always  before  her  ?  Surely 
it  was  not  all  their  worlds,  for  there  is  only  one  world. 
Then  whose  was  it?  God  who  made  it  and  set  it  in  the 
heavens  in  His  great  love  and  mercy  only  knows.  Watts 
McHurdie  once  wrote  some  query  like  this,  and  the  whole 
town  smiled  at  his  fancy.  In  that  portion  of  his  "  Com 
plete  Poetical  and  Philosophical  Works "  called  "  Frag 
ments  "  occur  these  lines: — 

"  The  wise  men  say 
This  world  spins  'round  the  universe  of  which  it  is  a  part ; 

But  anyway — 
The  only  world  I  know  about  is  spun  from  out  my  heart." 

And  perhaps  Watts,  sewing  away  in  his  harness  shop, 
had  deciphered  one  letter  in  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  IF  I  ever  get  to  be  a  Turk  or  anything  like  that,"  said 
Watts  McHurdie,in  October,  two  months  after  the  events 
recorded  in  the  last  chapter  had  occurred,  as  he  sat  astrad 
dle  of  his  bench,  sewing  on  a  bridle,  "  I'm  going  to  have 
one  red-headed  wife  —  but  not  much  more'n  one." 

Colonel  Culpepper  dropped  a  "  Why  ?  "  into  the  reflec 
tions  of  the  poet. 

Watts  replied,  "  Oh,  just  to  complete  the  set !  " 

The  colonel  did  not  answer  and  Watts  chuckled  :  "  I 
figure  out  that  women  are  a  study.  You  learn  this  one 
and  pat  yourself  on  the  breast-bone  and  say,  *  Behold  me, 
I'm  on  to  women.'  But  you  ain't.  Another  comes  along 
and  you  have  to  begin  at  the  beginning  and  learn  'em  all 
over.  I  wonder  if  Solomon  who  had  a  thousand  — -  more 
or  less  — got  all  his  wisdom  from  them." 

The  colonel  shook  his  head,  and  said  sententiously, 
"  Watts  —  they  hain't  a  blame  thing  in  it  —  not  a  blame 
thing."  The  creaking  of  the  treadle  on  Watt's  bench  slit 
the  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and  the  colonel  went  on : 
"There  can  be  educated  fools  about  women,  Watts  Mc- 
Hurdie,  just  as  there  are  educated  fools  about  books. 
There's  nothing  in  your  theory  of  a  liberal  education  in 
women.  On  the  contrary,  in  all  matters  relating  to  and 
touching  on  affairs  of  the  heart  —  beware  of  the  man  with 
one  wife." 

McHurdie  flashed  his  yellow-toothed  smile  upon  his 
friend  and  replied,  "  Or  less  than  one  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  just  one,"  answered  Colonel  Culpepper.  "  A 
man  with  a  raft  of  wives,  first  and  last,  is  like  a  fellow 
with  good  luck  —  the  Lord  never  gives  him  anything  else. 
And  I  may  say  in  point  of  fact,  that  the  man  with  no  wife 
is  like  a  man  with  bad  luck  —  the  Lord  never  gives  him 
anything  else,  either  ! "  The  colonel  slapped  his  right 

160 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  151 

hand  on  his  knee  and  exclaimed  :  "  Watts  McHurdie  — • 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  man  ?  Don't  you  see  Nellie's 
all  ready  and  waitin'  —  just  fairly  honin',  and  longin',  I 
may  say,  for  a  home  and  a  place  to  begin  to  live  ?" 

McHurdie  gave  his  treadle  a  jam  and  swayed  forward 
over  his  work  and  answered,  "  Marry  in  haste  —  repent 
at  leisure." 

But  nevertheless  that  night  Watts  sat  with  Nellie 
Logan  on  the  front  porch  of  the  Wards'  house,  watching 
the  rising  harvest  moon,  while  Mrs.  Ward,  inside,  was 
singing  to  her  baby.  Nellie  Logan  roomed  with  the 
Wards,  and  was  bookkeeper  in  Dorman's  store.  It  was 
nearly  ten  o'clock  and  the  man  rose  to  go.  "  Well,"  he 
said,  and  hesitated  a  moment,  "  well,  Nellie,  I  suppose 
you're  still  waiting  ?  "  It  was  a  question  rather  than  an 
assertion. 

The  woman  put  her  hands  gently  on  the  man's  arms  and 
sighed.  "  I  just  can't  —  not  yet,  Watts." 

"Well,  I  thought  maybe  you'd  changed  your  mind." 
He  smiled  as  he  continued,  "  You  know  they  say  women 
do  change  sometimes." 

She  looked  down  at  him  sadly.  "  Yes,  I  know  they  do, 
but  some  way  I  don't." 

There  was  a  long  pause  while  Watts  screwed  up  his 
courage  to  say,  "  Still  kind  of  thinking  about  that 
preacher?  " 

The  woman  had  no  animation  in  her  voice  as  she  re 
plied,  "You  know  that  by  now  —  without  asking." 

The  man  sat  down  on  the  step,  and  she  sat  on  a  lower 
step.  He  was  silent  for  a  time.  Then  he  said,  "  Funny, 
ain't  it  ?  "  She  knew  she  was  not  to  reply  ;  for  in  a  dozen 
years  she  had  learned  the  man's  moods.  In  a  minute,  dur 
ing  which  he  looked  into  his  hat  absent-mindedly,  he  went 
on  :  "  As  far  as  I've  been  able  to  make  it  out,  love's  a 
kind  of  a  grand-right-and-left.  I  give  my  right  hand  to 
you,  and  you  give  yours  to  the  preacher,  and  he  gives  his 
to  some  other  girl,  and  she  gives  hers  to  some  one  else,  like 
as  not,  who  gives  his  to  some  one  else,  and  the  fiddle  and 
the  horn  and  the  piano  and  the  bass  fid  screech  and  toot 


152  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

and  howl,  and  away  we  go  and  sigh  under  our  breaths  and 
break  our  hearts  and  swing  our  partners,  and  it's  every 
body  dance."  He  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled  at  his 
fancy.  For  he  was  a  poet  and  thought  his  remarks  had 
some  artistic  value. 

She  smiled  back  at  him,  and  he  leaned  on  his  elbows 
and  looked  up  at  her  as  he  said  quietly:  "I'd  like  awful 
well,  Nellie — awful  well  if  you'd  be  my  partner  for  the 
rest  of  this  dance.  It's  lonesome  down  there  in  the 
shop." 

The  woman  patted  his  hand,  and  they  sat  quietly  for  a 
while  and  then  she  said,  "Maybe  sometime,  Watts,  but 
not  to-night." 

He  got  up,  and  stood  for  a  moment  beside  her  on  the 
walk.  "  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  suppose  I  must  be 
moving  along  —  as  the  wandering  Jew  said."  He  smiled 
and  their  eyes  met  in  the  moonlight.  Watts  dropped  his 
instantly,  and  exclaimed,  "  You're  a  terrible  handsome 
girl,  Nellie  —  did  you  know  it  ? "  He  repeated  it  and 
added,  "And  the  Lord  knows  I  love  you,  Nellie,  and 
I've  said  it  a  thousand  times."  He  found  her  hand 
again,  and  said  as  he  put  on  his  hat,  "  Well,  good-by, 
Nellie  —  good-by  —  if  you  call  that  gone."  His  hand 
clasp  tightened  and  hers  responded,  and  then  he  dropped 
her  hand  and  turned  away. 

The  woman  felt  a  desire  to  scream  ;  she  never  knew 
how  she  choked  her  desire.  But  she  rushed  after  him 
and  caught  him  tightly  and  sobbed,  "  Oh,  Watts  — 
\\ratts  —  Watts  McHurdie —  are  you  never  going  to 
have  any  more  snap  in  you  than  that  ?  " 

As  he  kicked  away  the  earth  from  under  him,  Watts 
McHurdie  saw  the  light  in  a  window  of  the  Culpepper 
home,  and  when  he  came  down  to  earth  again  five  min 
utes  later,  he  said,  "  Well,  I  was  just  a-thinking  how 
nice  it  would  be  to  go  over  to  Culpeppers'  and  kind  of 
tell  them  the  news  !  " 

"They'll  have  news  of  their  own  pretty  soon,  I  ex 
pect,"  replied  Nellie.  And  to  Watts'  blank  look  she  re 
plied :  "The  way  that  man  Brownwell  keeps  shining 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  153 

around.  He  was  there  four  nights  last  week,  and  he's 
been  there  two  this  week  already.  I  don't  see  what 
Molly  Culpepper  can  be  thinking  of." 

So  they  deferred  the  visit  to  the  Culpeppers',  and  in 
due  time  Watts  McHurdie  flitted  down  Lincoln  Avenue 
and  felt  himself  wafted  along  Main  Street  as  far  in  the 
clouds  as  a  mortal  may  be.  And  though  it  was  nearly 
midnight,  he  brought  out  his  accordion  and  sat  playing 
it,  beating  time  with  his  left  foot,  and  in  his  closed  eyes 
seeing  visions  that  by  all  the  rights  of  this  game  of  life 
should  come  only  to  youth.  And  the  guests  in  the 
Thayer  House  next  morning  asked,  "  Well,  for  heaven's 
sake,  who  was  that  playing  4  Silver  Threads  among  the 
Gold'  along  there  about  midnight  ?  —  he  surely  must  know 
it  by  this  time." 

And  Adrian  Brownwell,  sitting  on  the  Culpepper  ve 
randa  the  next  night  but  one,  said  :  "  Colonel,  your  har 
ness-maker  friend  is  a  musical  artist.  The  other  night 
when  I  came  in  I  heard  him  twanging  his  lute  — 4  The 
Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Hall ' ;  you  know,  Colonel." 

And  John  Barclay  closed  his  letter  to  Bob  Hendricks  : 
"  Well,  Bob,  as  I  sit  here  with  fifty  letters  written  this 
evening  and  ready  to  mail,  and  the  blessed  knowledge 
that  we  have  18,000  acres  of  winter  wheat  all  planted  if 
not  paid  for,  I  can  hear  old  Watts  wheezing  away  on  his 
accordion  in  his  shop  down  street.  Poor  old  Watts,  it's  a 
pity  that  man  hasn't  the  acquisitive  faculty  —  he  could 
turn  that  talent  into  enough  to  keep  him  all  his  days. 
Poor  old  Watts  !  " 

And  Molly  Culpepper,  sitting  in  her  bedroom  chew 
ing  her  penholder,  finally  wrote  this  :  "  Watts  McHurdie 
went  sailing  by  the  house  to-night,  coming  home  from 
the  Wards',  where  he  was  making  his  regular  call  on 
Nellie.  You  know  what  a  mouse-like  little  walk  he  has, 
scratching  along  the  sidewalk  so  demurely  ;  but  to-night, 
after  he  passed  our  place  I  heard  him  actually  break  into 
a  hippety-hop,  and  as  I  was  sitting  on  the  veranda,  I 
could  hear  him  clicking  clear  down  to  the  new  stone 
walk  in  front  of  the  post-office."  Oho,  Molly  Culpepper, 


154  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

you  said  "  as  I  was  sitting  on  the  veranda "  ;  that  is  oi 
course  the  truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth ;  what  you 
might  have  said  was  "  as  we  were  sitting  on  the  veran 
da,"  and  "  as  we  were  talking  of  what  I  like "  and 
"  what  you  like,"  and  of  "  what  I  think  "  and  "  what  you 
think,"  and  as  "  I  was  listening  to  war  tales  from  a  South 
ern  soldier,"  and  as  "  I  was  finding  it  on  the  whole  rather 
a  tiresome  business  "  ;  those  things  you  might  have  writ 
ten,  Molly  Culpepper,  but  you  did  not.  And  was  it  a 
twinge  or  a  prick  or  a  sharp  reproachful  stab  of  your  con 
science  that  made  you  chew  the  tip  of  your  penholder 
into  shreds  and  then  madly  write  down  this  :  — 

"  Bob,  I  don't  know  what  is  coming  over  me  ;  but  some 
way  your  letters  seem  so  far  away,  and  it  has  been  such  a 
long  time  since  I  saw  you,  a  whole  lonesome  year,  and 
Bob  dear,  I  am  so  weak  and  so  unworthy  of  you;  I  know 
it,  oh,  I  know  it.  But  I  feel  to-night  that  I  must  tell  you 
something  right  from  my  heart.  It  is  this,  dear:  no 
matter  what  may  happen,  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  must 
always  love  you  better  than  any  one  else  in  all  the  world. 
I  seem  so  young  and  foolish,  and  life  is  so  long  and  the 
world  is  so  big — so  big  and  you  are  so  far  away.  But, 
Bob  dear,  my  good  true  boy,  don't  forget  this  that  I  tell 
you  to-night,  that  through  all  time  and  all  eternity  the 
innermost  part  of  my  heart  must  always  be  yours.  No 
matter  what  happens  to  you  and  me  in  the  course  of  life 
in  the  big  world  —  you  must  never  forget  what  I  have 
written  here  to-night." 

And  these  words,  for  some  strange  reason,  were  burned 
on  the  man's  soul;  though  she  had  written  him  fonder  ones, 
which  passed  from  him  with  the  years.  The  other  words 
of  the  letter  fell  into  his  eyes  and  were  consumed  there, 
so  he  does  not  remember  that  she  also  wrote  that  night: 
"  I  have  just  been  standing  at  my  bedroom  window,  look 
ing  out  over  the  town.  It  is  quiet  as  the  graveyard,  save 
for  the  murmur  of  the  waters  falling  over  the  dam.  And 
I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  fancy  or  whether  it  is  real,  but; 
now  and  then  there  comes  to  me  a  faint  hint  of  music,— 
it  sounds  almost  like  Watts'  accordion,  but  of  course  ill 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  155 

cannot  be  at  this  unholy  hour,  and  the  tune  it  makes  me 
think  of  some  way  is  'Silver  Threads  among  the  Gold.' 
Isn't  it  odd  that  I  should  hear  that  song,  and  yet  not  hear 
it,  and  have  it  running  through  my  mind?" 

And  thus  the  town  heard  Watts  McHurdie's  song  of 
triumph — the  chortle  that  every  male  creature  of  the 
humankind  instinctively  lets  out  when  he  has  found  favour 
in  some  woman's  eyes,  that  men  have  let  out  since  Lemech 
sang  of  victory  over  the  young  man  to  Adah  and  Zillah ! 
And  in  all  the  town  no  one  knew  what  it  meant.  For  the 
accordion  is  not  essentially  an  instrument  of  passion.  So 
the  episode  ended,  and  another  day  came  in.  And  all  that 
is  left  to  mark  for  this  world  that  night  of  triumph  —  and 
that  mark  soon  will  bleach  into  oblivion  —  are  the  verses 
entitled  "  Love  at  Sunset,"  of  which  Colonel  Martin  Cul- 
pepper,  the  poet's  biographer,  writes  in  that  chapter  "  At 
Hymen's  Altar,"  referred  to  before:  "This  poem  was 
written  October  14,  1874,  on  the  occasion  of  the  poet's 
engagement  to  Miss  Nellie  Logan,  who  afterward  became 
his  wife.  By  many  competent  critics,  including  no  less  a 
personage  than  Hon.  John  Barclay,  president  of  the  Na 
tional  Provisions  Company,  this  poem  is  deemed  one  of 
Mr.  McHurdie's  noblest  achievements,  ranking  second 
only  to  the  great  song  that  gave  him  national  fame." 

And  it  should  be  set  down  as  an  integral  part  of  this 
narrative  that  John  Barclay  first  read  the  verses  "  Love 
at  Sunset "  in  the  Banner,  two  weeks  after  the  night  of 
their  composition,  as  he  was  finishing  a  campaign  for  the 
Fifth  Parallel  bonds.  He  picked  up  the  Banner  one  even 
ing  at  twilight  in  a  house  in  Pleasant  township,  and 
seeing  Watts'  initials  under  some  verses,  read  them  at  first 
mechanically,  and  then  reread  them  with  real  zest,  and  so 
deeply  did  they  move  the  man  from  the  mooring  of  the  cam 
paign  that  seeing  an  accordion  on  the  table  of  the  best 
room  in  which  he  was  waiting  for  supper,  Barclay  picked 
it  up  and  fooled  with  it  for  half  an  hour.  It  had  been 
a  dozen  years  since  he  had  played  an  accordion,  and  the 
tunes  that  came  into  his  fingers  were  old  tunes  in  vogue 
before  the  war,  and  he  thought  of  himself  as  an  old  man, 


156  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

though  he  was  not  yet  twenty-five.  But  the  old  tunes 
brought  back  his  boyhood  from  days  so  remote  that  they 
seemed  a  long  time  past.  And  that  night  when  he  ad 
dressed  the  people  in  the  Pleasant  Valley  schoolhouse,  he 
was  half  an  hour  getting  on  to  the  subject  of  the  bonds ; 
he  dwelt  on  the  old  days  and  spoke  of  the  drouth  of  '60 
1  and  of  the  pioneers,  and  preached  a  sermon,  with  their 
1  lives  for  texts,  on  the  value  of  service  without  thought  of 
I  money  or  hope  of  other  reward  than  the  joy  one  has  in 
{ consecrated  work.  Then  he  launched  into  the'  bond  prop 
osition,  and  when  the  votes  were  counted  Pleasant  town 
ship  indorsed  Barclay's  plan  overwhelmingly.  For  he 
was  a  young  man  of  force,  if  not  of  eloquence.  His  evident 
sincerity  made  up  for  what  he  lacked  in  oratorical  charm, 
and  he  left  an  impression  on  those  about  him.  So  when 
the  bonds  carried  in  Garrison  County,  the  firm  of  Ward 
and  Barclay  was  made  local  attorneys  for  the  road,  and 
General  Ward,  smarting  under  the  defeat  of  his  party  in 
the  state,  refused  to  accept  the  railroad's  business,  and  the 
partnership  was  dissolved. 

"  John,''  said  Ward,  as  he  put  his  hands  on  the  young 
man's  shoulders  and  looked  at  him  a  kindly  moment,  be 
fore  picking  up  his  bushel  basket  of  letters  and  papers,  to 
move  them  into  another  room  and  dissolve  the  partnership, 
1  **  John,"  the  elder  man  repeated,  "  if  I  could  always  main 
tain  such  a  faith  in  God  as  you  maintain  in  money  and 
/its  power,  I  could  raise  the  dead." 

Barclay  blinked  a  second  and  replied,  "Well,  now,  Gen 
eral,  look  here  —  what  I  don't  understand  is  how  you  ex 
pect  to  accomplish  anything  without  money." 

"  1  can't  tell  you,  John — but  some  way  I  have  faith  that 
I  can  —  can  do  more  real  work  in  this  world  without  both 
ering  to  get  money,  than  I  can  by  stopping  to  get  money 
with  which  to  do  good." 

"  But  if  you  had  a  million,  you  could  do  more  good  with 
it  than  you  are  doing  now,  couldn't  you  ?  "  asked  Barclay. 

44  Yes,  perhaps  I  could,"  admitted  the  general,  as  he  eyed 
his  miserable  little  pile  of  worldly  goods  in  the  basket. 
*'  I  suppose  I  could,"  he  repeated  meditatively. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  157 

"All  right  then,  General,"  cut  in  Barclay.  "I  have  no 
million,  any  more  than  you  have  ;  but  I'm  going  to  get  one 

—  or  two,  maybe  a  dozen  if  I  can,  and  I  want  to  do  good 
with  it  just  as  much  as  you  do.     When  I  get  it  I'll  show 
you."     Barclay  rose  to  lend  the  general  a  hand  with  his 
basket.     As  they  went  awkwardly  through  the  door  with 
the  load,  the  general  stopping  to  get  a  hold  on  the  basket 
that  would  not  twist  his  hand,  he  put  the  load  down  in 
the  hall  and  said  :  "  But  while  you're  getting  that  million, 
you're  wasting  God's  ten  talents,  boy.     Can't  you  see  that  if 
you  would  use  your  force,  your  keenness,  and  persistence 
helping  mankind  in  some  way  —  teaching,  preaching,  lend 
ing  a  hand  to  the  poor,  or  helping  to  fight  organized  greed, 
you  would  get  more  of  God's  work  done  than  you  will  by 
squeezing  the  daylights  out  of  your  fellow-men,  making 
them  hate  money  because  of  your  avarice,  and  end  by  dol 
ing  it  out  to  them  in  charity?     That's  my  point,  boy. 
That's  why  I  don't  want  your  railroad  job." 

They  had  dropped  the  basket  in  the  bare  room.  The 
general  had  not  so  much  as  a  chair  or  a  desk.  He  looked 
it  over,  and  Barclay's  eyes  followed  his.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  for  furniture  ?  "  asked  the  younger  man. 

The  general's  thin  face  wrinkled  into  a  smile.  "  Well," 
he  replied,  "  I  suppose  that  if  a  raven  can  carry  dry-goods, 
groceries,  boots  and  shoes  and  drugs,  paints  and  oils,  — 
and  certainly  the  ravens  have  been  bringing  those  things 
to  the  Wards  for  eight  years  now,  and  they're  all  paid  for, 

—  the  blessed  bird  can  hump  itself  a  little  and  bring  some 
furniture,  stoves,  and  hardware." 

Barclay  limped  into  his  room,  while  the  general  rubbed 
the  dust  off  the  windows.  In  a  minute  John  came  stum 
bling  in  with  a  chair,  and  as  he  set  it  down  he  said,  "  Here 
comes  the  first  raven,  General,  and  now  if  you'll  kindly 
come  and  give  the  ravens  a  lift,  they'll  bring  you  a  table." 
And  so  the  two  men  dragged  the  table  into  the  office,  and  as 
they  finished,  Ward  saw  General  Hendricks  coming  up  the 
stairs,  and  when  the  new  room  had  been  put  in  order,  —  a 
simple  operation,  —  General  Ward  hurried  home  to  help 
Mrs.  Ward  get  in  their  dahlia  roots  for  the  winter. 


158  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

As  they  were  digging  in  the  garden,  covering  the  ferns 
and  wrapping  the  magnolia  tree  they  had  lately  acquired, 
and  mulching  the  perennials,  Mrs.  Mary  Barclay  came 
toward  them  buffeting  the  wind.  She  wore  the  long  cowl- 
ish  waterproof  cloak  and  hood  of  the  period  —  which  she 
had  put  on  during  the  cloudy  morning.  Her  tall  strong 
figure  did  not  bend  in  the  wind,  and  the  schoolbooks  she 
carried  in  her  hand  broke  the  straight  line  of  her  figure 
only  to  heighten  the  priestess  effect  that  her  approaching 
presence  produced. 

"Well,  children,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  by  the  Wards 
at  their  work,  "  preparing  your  miracles?"  She  looked  at 
the  bulbs  and  roots,  and  smiled.  "  How  wonderful  that 
all  the  beauty  of  the  flowers  should  be  in  those  scrawny 
brown  things;  and,"  she  added  as  she  brushed  away  the 
brown  hair  of  her  forties  from  her  broad  brow,  "  God  prob 
ably  thinks  the  same  thing  when  He  considers  men  and 
their  souls." 

"  And  when  the  gardener  puts  us  away  for  our  winter  s 
sleep?"  Ward  asked. 

She  turned  her  big  frank  blue  eyes  upon  him  as  she 
took  the  words  from  his  mouth,  " '  And  the  last  Adam 
was  made  a  quickening  spirit.' '  Then  she  smiled  sadly 
and  said,  "  But  it  is  the  old  Adam  himself  that  I  seem  to 
be  wrestling  with  just  now." 

"In  the  children  —  at  school?"  asked  the  Wards,  one 
after  the  other.  She  sighed  and  looked  at  ^the  little 
troopers  straggling  along  the  highway,  and  replied,  "  Yes, 
partly  that,  too,"  and  throwing  her  unnecessary  hood  back, 
turned  her  face  into  the  wind  and  walked  quickly  away. 
The  Wards  watched  her  as  she  strode  down  the  hill,  and 
finally  as  he  bent  to  his  work  the  general  asked :  — 

"  Lucy,  what  does  she  think  of  John  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ward,  who  was  busy  with  a  geranium,  did  not 
reply  at  once.  But  in  a  moment  she  rose  and,  putting 
the  plant  with  some  others  that  were  to  go  to  the  cellar, 
replied:  "Oh,  Phil  —  you  know  a  mother  tries  to  hope 
against  hope.  She  teaches  her  school  every  day,  and  keeps 
her  mind  busy.  But  sometimes,  when  she  stops  in  here 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  159 

after  school  or  for  lunch,  she  can't  help  dropping  things  / 
that  let  me  know.     I  think  her  heart  is  breaking,  Phil."     f 

"  Does  she  know  about  the  wheat  deal  — •  I  mean  about 
the  way  he  has  made  the  farmers  sign  that  mortgage  by 
cutting  them  off  from  borrowing  money  at  the  bank?  " 

"Not  all  of  it — but  I  think  she  suspects,"  replied  the  wife. 

"  Did  you  know,  dear,"  said  the  general,  as  he  put  the 
plants  in  the  barrow  to  wheel  them  to  the  cellar,  "  that  I 
ran  across  something  to-day  —  it  may  be  all  suspicion,  and 
I  don't  want  to  wrong  John  — •  but  Mart  Culpepper,  God 
bless  his  big  innocent  heart,  let  something  slip  —  well,  it 
was  John,  I  think,  who  arranged  for  that  loan  of  ten 
thousand  from  Brownwell  to  Mart.  Though  why  he 
didn't  get  it  at  the  bank,  I  don't  know.  But  John  had 
some  reason.  Things  look  mighty  crooked  there  at  the 
bank.  I  know  this  —  Mart  says  that  Brownwell  lent  him 
the  money,  and  Mart  lent  it  to  the  bank  for  a  month  there 
in  August,  while  he  was  holding  the  Chicago  fellow  in 
the  air." 

Mrs.  Ward  sat  down  on  the  front  steps  of  the  porch, 
and  exclaimed:  — 

"  Well,  Phil  Ward  —  that's  why  the  Culpeppers  are  so 
nice  to  Brownwell.  Honestly,  Phil,  the  last  time  I  was 
over  Mrs.  Culpepper  nearly  talked  her  head  off  to  me  and 
at  Molly  about  what  a  fine  man  he  is,  and  told  all  about 
his  family,  and  connections  —  he's  related  to  the  angel 
Gabriel  on  his  mother's  side,"  she  laughed,  "  and  he's  own 
cousin  to  St.  Peter  through  the  Brown  wells." 

"Oh,  I  guest>  they're  innocent  enough  about  it  —  they 
aren't  mercenary,"  interrupted  the  general. 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Mrs  Ward,  "  never  in  the  world ;  but 
he's  been  good  to  them  and  he's  of  their  stock  —  and  it's 
only  natural.*' 

"  Yes,  probably,'  replied  the  general,  and  asked,  "  Does 
she  intend  to  marrj  Him,  do  you  think  ?  "  Mrs.  Ward 
was  sorting  some  dahlia  roots  cm  the  wheelbarrow  and  did 
not  reply  at  once.  "  Do  you  suppose  they're  engaged  ?  " 
repeated  the  general. 

"  I  often  wonder,"  she  returned,  still  at  her  task.     Then 


160  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

she  rose,  holding  a  bulb  in  her  hands,  and  said:  "It's  a 
funny  kind  of  relation.  Her  father  and  mother  egging 
her  on  —  and  you  know  that  kind  of  a  man ;  give  him  an 
inch  and  he'll  take  an  ell.  I  wonder  how  far  he  has  got." 
She  took  the  bulb  to  a  pile  near  the  rear  of  the  house. 
"  Those  are  the  nice  big  yellow  ones  I'm  saving  for  Mrs.  Bar 
clay.  But  I'm  sure  of  one  thing,  Molly  has  no  notion  of 
marrying  Brown  well."  She  continued  :  "  Molly  is  still  in 
love  with  Bob.  She  was  over  here  last  week  and  had  a 
good  cry  and  told  me  so." 

"  Well,  why  doesn't  she  send  this  man  about  his  busi 
ness  ?  "  exclaimed  the  general. 

Mrs.  Ward  sighed  a  little  and  replied,  "Because  — 
there  is  only  one  perfect  person  in  all  the  world,  and  that's 
you."  She  smiled  at  him  and  continued:  "The  rest  of 
us,  dear,  are  just  flesh  and  blood.  So  we  make  mistakes. 
Molly  knows  she  should ;  she  told  me  so  the  other  day. 
And  she  hates  herself  for  not  doing  it.  But,  dearie  — 
don't  you  see  she  thinks  if  she  does,  her  father  and  mother 
will  lose  the  big  house,  and  Bob  will  be  involved  in  some 
kind  of  trouble  ?  They  keep  that  before  her  all  of  the 
time.  She  says  that  John  is  always  insisting  that  she  be 
nice  to  Brown  well.  And  you  know  the  Culpeppers  think 
Brownwell  is  —  well,  you  know  what  they  think." 

They  worked  along  for  a  while,  and  the  general  stopped 
and  put  his  foot  on  his  spade  and  cried  :  "  That  boy  — 
that  boy  —  that  boy  !  Isn't  he  selling  his  soul  to  the 
devil  by  bits  ?  A  little  chunk  goes  every  day.  And  oh, 
my  dear,  my  dear  —  "  he  broke  out,  "  what  profi teth  a  man 
if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  Poor, 
poor  John."  He  fell  to  his  work  again,  sighing,  "Poor 
John,  poor  John  !  "  So  they  talked  on  until  the  afternoon 
grew  old. 

And  while  they  were  talking,  John  and  General  Hen- 
dricks  were  in  Barclay's  office  going  over  matters,  and 
seeing  where  they  stood. 

"  So  he  says  seventy  thousand  is  too  much  for  the  com 
pany  and  me  to  owe?"  said  John,  at  the  end  of  half  an 
hour's  conference. 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  161 

The  general  was  drumming  his  fingers  on  the  table 
nervously.  "  Yes  —  he  says  we've  got  to  reduce  that  in 
thirty  days,  or  he'll  close  us  up.  Haven't  you  got  any 
political  influence,  somewhere  in  the  East,  John,  —  some  of 
those  stockholders,  —  that  will  hold  this  matter  up  till  yov 
can  harvest  your  crop  next  June  ?  " 

Barclay  thought  a  moment,  with  his  hand  in  his  chin, 
and  then  slowly  shook  his  head.  A  bank  inspector  from 
Washington  was  several  degrees  higher  in  the  work  of 
politics  than  Barclay  had  gone. 

"  Let  me  see  — "  droned  Barclay  ;  "  let  me  see.  We 
can  at  least  try  scattering  it  out  a  little ;  cut  off,  say,  fifty 
thousand  from  me  and  the  company  and  put  it  in  the 
name  of  Lige  —  " 

"  He's  on  to  Lige,  we've  got  a  hat  full  of  Lige's  notes 
in  there,"  interrupted  the  general. 

"All  right,  then,  drop  Lige  and  put  in  the  colonel  — 
he'll  do  that  for  me,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  get  the  colonel 
to  get  Brownwell  to  accommodate  us.  He's  burning  a 
good  bit  of  the  colonel's  stove  wood  these  nights."  Bar 
clay  smiled,  and  added,  "  And  I'll  just  put  Bob  in  for  a 
few  thousand." 

"But  what'll  we  do  about  those  taxes?"  asked  the 
general,  anxiously.  "You  know  they've  got  to  be  paid 
before  the  first  of  the  year,  and  that's  only  six  weeks  off." 

Barclay  rose  and  paced  the  rug,  and  replied:  "Yes, 
that's  so.  I  was  going  to  make  another  note  for  them. 
But  I  suppose  we  oughtn't  to  do  it  even  under  cover;  for 
if  he  found  out  you  had  exceeded  our  loan  right  now  — 
you  know  those  fellows  get  ugly  sometimes."  The  young 
man  screwed  up  his  face  and  stood  looking  out  of  the 
window  in  silence  for  a  long  minute.  Then  he  limped 
over  to  his  chair  and  sat  down  as  one  who  has  a  plan. 
"Say  now,  General;  you  know  Gabe  Gamine's  coming  in 
as  county  treasurer  right  after  the  first  of  the  year,  and 
we  will  make  him  help  us.  You  make  your  personal 
check  for  the  nine  thousand,  and  give  it  to  the  old  cuss 
who's  in  the  county  treasurer's  office  now,  with  the  descrip 
tions  of  the  land,  and  get  the  tax  receipts;  he'll  bring  the 


162  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

check  back  to  the  bank ;  you  give  him  credit  on  his  pass 
book  with  the  other  checks,  and  just  hold  your  own  check 
out  in  the  drawer  as  cash.  If  my  check  was  in  there, 
the  inspector  might  drop  in  and  see  it,  and  cause  a  dis 
turbance.  When  Gabe  comes  in,  I'll  make  him  carry 
the  matter  over  till  next  summer." 

The  transaction  would  cover  only  a  few  days,  Barclay 
explained ;  and  finally  he  had  his  way.  So  the  Larger 
Good  was  accomplished. 

And  later  Adrian  Brownwell  came  into  the  office  to 
say :  — 

"  Mr.  Barclay,  our  friend,  Colonel  Culpepper,  confessed 
to  me  after  some  transparent  attempts  at  subterfuge  that 
my  signing  an  accommodation  note  would  help  you,  and 
do  I  understand  this  also  will  help  our  young  friend, 
Robert  Hendricks,  whom  I  have  never  seen,  and  enable 
him  to  remain  at  his  post  during  the  winter  ?  " 

John  Barclay  took  a  square  hard  look  at  Brownwell, 
and  got  a  smile  and  a  faint  little  shrug  in  return,  where 
upon,  for  the  Larger  Good,  he  replied  "  Yes,"  and  for  the 
Larger  Good  also,  perhaps,  Adrian  Brownwell  answered : 

"Well,  I  shall  be  delighted  —  just  make  my  note  for 
thirty  days  —  only  thirty  days,  you  understand  ;  and  then 

—  well,  of  course  if  circumstances  justify  it,  I'll  renew  it." 
Barclay  laughed   and   asked,    "Well,  Mr.    Brownwell, 

as  between  friends  may  I  ask  how  '  circumstances '  are 
getting  on  ?  " 

Brownwell  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  blandly 
as  he  answered :  "  Just  so-so ;  I  go  twice  a  week.  And 

—  "  he  waved  his  gloves  airily  and  continued,  "  What  is 
it  the  immortal  Burns  says :  4  A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that 
and  a'  that ! '  And  I'm  a  man,  John  Barclay,  and  she's  a 
woman.     And  I  go  twice  a  week.     You  know  women,  sir, 
you  know  women  —  they're  mostly  all  alike.     So  I  think 

—  "  he  smirked  complacently  as  he  concluded  —  "I  think 
what  I  need  is  time  —  only  time." 

"  Luck  to  you,"  said  Barclay.  "  I'll  just  make  the  note 
thirty  days,  as  you  say,  and  we  can  renew  it  from  time  to 
time." 


A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  163 

Then  Brownwell  put  on  Ms  hat,  twirled  his  cane  effu 
sively,  and  bade  Barclay  an  elaborate  adieu. 

And  ten  days  later,  Molly  Culpepper,  loathing  herself 
in  her  soul,  and  praying  for  the  day  of  deliverance  when 
it  should  be  all  over,  walked  slowly  from  the  post-office 
up  the  hill  to  the  house,  the  stately  house,  with  its  im 
pressive  pillars,  reading  this :  "  My  darling  Girl :  John 
has  sent  me  some  more  mortgages  to  sell,  and  they  have 
to  be  sold  now.  He  says  that  father  has  to  have  the 
money,  and  he  and  father  have  laid  out  work  for  me  that 
will  keep  me  here  till  the  middle  of  January.  John  says 
that  the  government  inspector  has  been  threatening  us 
with  serious  trouble  in  the  bank  lately,  and  we  must  have 
the  money.  He  says  the  times  have  forced  us  to  do  cer 
tain  things  that  were  technically  wrong  —  though  I  guess 
they  were  criminally  wrong  from  what  he  says,  and  we 
must  have  this  money  to  make  things  good.  So  I  am 
compelled  to  stay  here  and  work.  Father  commands  me 
to  stay  in  a  way  that  makes  me  fear  that  my  coming  home 
now  would  mean  our  ruin.  What  a  brick  John  is  to  stay 
there  and  shoulder  it  all.  But,  oh,  darling,  darling,  dar 
ling,  I  love  you." 

There  was  more,  of  course,  and  it  was  from  a  man's 
heart,  and  the  strange  and  sad  part  of  this  story  is  that 
when  Molly  Culpepper  read  the  rest  of  the  letter,  her  heart 
burned  in  shame,  and  her  shame  was  keener  than  her  sorrow 
that  her  lover  was  not  coming  home. 

So  it  happened  naturally  that  Molly  Culpepper  went  to 
the  Christmas  dance  with  Adrian  Brownwell,  and  when 
Jane  Barclay,  seeing  the  proprietary  way  the  Alaba 
man  hovered  over  Molly,  and  his  obvious  jealousy  of  all 
the  other  men  who  were  civil  to  her,  asked  John  why  he 
did  not  let  Bob  come  home  for  the  holidays,  as  he  had 
promised,  for  the  Larger  Good  John  told  her  the  facts 
—  that  there  were  some  mortgages  that  had  just  come  in, 
and  they  must  be  sold,  so  that  the  company  could  reduce 
its  indebtedness  to  the  bank.  But  the  facts  are  not  always 
the  truth,  and  in  her  heart,  which  did  not  reason  but  only 
felt,  Molly  Culpepper,  knowing  that  Brownwell  and  John 


164  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

Barclay  were  in  some  kind  of  an  affair  together,  feared  the 
truth.  And  from  her  heart  she  wrote  to  her  lover  ques 
tioning  John's  motives  and  pleading  with  him  to  return, 
and  he,  having  merely  the  facts,  did  not  see  the  truth,  and 
replied  impatiently  —  so  impatiently  that  it  hurt,  and  there 
was  temper  in  her  answer,  and  then  for  over  a  week  no 
letter  came,  and  for  over  a  week  no  reply  went  back  to 
that.  And  so  the  Larger  Good  wa8  doing  its  fine  work  i$ 
a  wicked  world. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  spring  sun  of  1875  that  tanned  John  Barclay's  face 
gave  it  a  leathery  masklike  appearance  that  the  succeed 
ing  years  never  entirely  wore  off.  For  he  lived  in  the 
open  by  day,  riding  among  his  fields  in  three  townships, 
watching  the  green  carpet  of  March  rise  and  begin  to 
dimple  in  April,  and  billow  in  May.  And  at  night  he 
worked  in  his  office  until  the  midnight  cockcrow.  His 
back  was  bowed  under  a  score  of  burdens.  But  his  great 
est  burden  was  the  bank;  for  it  gave  him  worry;  and 
worry  weighed  upon  him  more  than  work.  It  was  in 
April  —  early  April  when  the  days  were  raw  and  cloudy, 
and  the  nights  blustery  and  dreary  —  that  Barclay  sat  in 
his  office  one  night  after  a  hard  day  afield,  his  top-boots 
spattered  with  mud,  his  corduroy  coat  spread  out  on  a  chak 
to  dry,  and  his  wet  gray  soft  hat  on  his  desk  beside  him. 
Jane  was  with  her  parents  in  Minneola,  and  Barclay  had 
come  to  his  office  without  eating,  from  the  stable  where  he 
left  his  team.  The  yellow  lights  in  the  street  below  were 
reflected  on  the  mists  outside  his  window,  and  the  dripping 
eaves  and  cornices  above  him  and  about  him  seemed  to 
mark  the  time  of  some  eery  music  too  fine  for  his  senses, 
and  the  footfalls  in  the  street  below,  hurrying  footfalls  of 
people  shivering  through  the  mists,  seemed  to  be  the  drum 
beats  of  the  weird  symphony  that  he  could  not  hear. 

Barclay  drew  a  watch  from  the  pocket  of  his  blue  flannel 
shirt,  and  looked  at  it  and  stopped  writing  and  stood  by 
the  box-stove.  He  was  looking  at  the  door  when  he  heard 
a  thud  on  the  stairs.  It  was  followed  by  a  rattling  sound, 
and  in  a  moment  Adrian  Brownwell  and  his  cane  were  in 
the  room.  After  the  rather  gorgeous  cadenza  of  Brown- 
well's  greeting  had  died  away  and  Barclay  had  his  man  in 
a  chair,  Barclay  opened  the  stove  door  and  let  the  glow  of 
the  flames  fight  the  shadows  in  the  room. 


166  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAM 

"  Well,"  said  Barclay,  turning  toward  his  visitor 
brusquely,  "  why  won't  you  renew  that  accommodation 
paper  for  me  again  ?  " 

The  Papins  and  the  Dulangpres  shrugged  their  shoul 
ders  and  waved  their  hands  through  Brownwell  rather 
nastily  as  he  answered,  "  Circumstances,  Mr.  Barclay, 
circumstances  ! " 

"  You're  not  getting  along  fast  enough,  eh  ?  "  retorted 
Barclay. 

"  Yes  —  and  no,"  returned  Brownwell. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Barclay,  half  divining  the 
truth, 

"  Well  —  it  is  after  all  our  own  affair  —  but  since  you 
are  a  friend  I  will  say  this  :  three  times  a  week  —  some 
times  four  times  a  week  I  go  out  to  pay  my  respects. 
Until  November  I  stayed  until  nine,  at  Christmas  we  put 
on  another  hour  ;  now  it  is  ten-thirty.  I  am  a  man,  John 
Barclay — as  you  see.  She  —  she  is  an  angel.  Very 
good.  In  that  way,  yes.  But,"  the  Papins  and  Du 
langpres  came  back  to  his  face,  and  he  shook  his  head. 
"But  otherwise  —  no.  There  we  stand  still.  She  will 
not  say  it." 

Barclay  squinted  at  the  man  who  sat  so  complacently  in 
the  glow  of  the  firelight,  with  his  cane  between  his  toes 
and  his  gloves  lightly  fanning  the  air.  "  So  I  take  it," 
said  John,  "  that  you  are  like  the  Memorial  Day  parade, 
several  hours  passing  a  given  point !  " 

"  Exactly,"  smiled  back  Brownwell.  He  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  diamond  ring.  "  She  will  look  at  it ;  she  will  ad 
mire  it.  She  will  put  it  on  a  chain,  but  she  will  not  wear 
it.  And  so  I  say,  why  should  I  put  my  head  in  a  noose 
here  in  your  bank  —  what's  the  use  ?  No,  sir,  John  Bar 
clay —  no,  sir.  I'm  done,  sir." 

Barclay  knew  wheedling  would  not  move  Brownwell. 
He  was  of  the  mulish  temperament.  So  Barclay  stretched 
out  in  his  chair,  locked  his  hands  back  of  his  head,  and 
looked  at  the  ceiling  through  his  eyelashes.  After  a 
silence  he  addressed  the  cobwebs  above  him  :  "  Supposing 
the  case.  Wtfuld  a  letter  from  me  to  you,  setting  forth 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  167 

the  desperate  need  of  this  accommodation  paper,  not  espe 
cially  for  me,  but  for  Colonel  Culpepper's  fortunes  and  the 
good  name  of  the  Hendricks  family  —  would  that  help 
your  cause  —  a  letter  that  you  could  show  ;  a  letter,"  Bar 
clay  said  slowly,  "  asking  for  this  accommodation  ;  a  letter 
that  you  could  show  to  —  to  —  well,  to  the  proper  parties, 
let  us  say,  to-night  ;  would  —  that  kind  of  a  letter  help 
— "  Barclay  rose  suddenly  to  an  upright  position  and 
went  on  :  "  Say,  Mr.  Man,  that  ought  to  pretty  nearly  fix 
it.  Let's  leave  both  matters  open,  say  for  two  hours,  and 
then  at  ten  o'clock  or  so  —  you  come  back  here,  and  I'll  have 
the  note  for  you  to  sign  —  if  you  care  to.  How's  that  ?  " 
he  asked  as  he  turned  to  his  desk  and  reached  for  a  pen. 

"  Well,"  replied  Brownwell,  "  I  am  willing  to  try." 

And  so  Barclay  sat  writing  for  five  minutes,  while  the 
glow  of  the  flames  died  down,  and  the  shadows  ceased 
fighting  and  were  still. 

"  Read  this  over,"  said  Barclay  at  length.  "  You  will 
see,"  he  added,  as  he  handed  Brownwell  the  unfolded 
sheets,  "  that  I  have  made  it  clear  that  if  you  refuse  to 
sign  our  notes,  General  Hendricks  will  be  compelled  to 
close  the  bank,  and  that  the  examination  which  will  fol 
low  will  send  him  to  prison  and  jeopardize  Bob,  who  has 
signed  a  lot  of  improper  notes  there  to  cover  our  transac 
tions,  and  that  in  the  crash  Colonel  Culpepper  will  lose  all 
he  has,  including  the  roof  over  his  head  —  if  you  refuse  to 
help  us."  ("  However,"  snarled  Barclay,  at  his  conscience, 
"  I've  only  told  the  truth  ;  for  if  you  take  your  money  and 
go  and  shut  down  on  the  colonel,  it  would  make  him  a 
pauper.") 

With  a  flourishing  crescendo  finale  Adrian  Brownwell 
entered  the  dark  stairway  and  went  down  into  the  street. 
Barclay  turned  quickly  to  his  work  as  if  to  avoid  medita 
tion.  The  scratch  of  his  pen  and  the  murmur  of  the  water 
en  the  roof  grew  louder  and  louder  as  the  evening  waxed 
old.  And  out  on  the  hill,  out  on  Lincoln  Avenue,  the 
rain  descended,  and  the  floods  came,  and  the  winds  blew 
and  beat  upon  that  house —  that  stately  house  of  a  father's 
pride  and  — 


168  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

At  ten  o'clock  John  Barclay  heard  a  light  footstep  and 
a  rattling  cane  upon  the  stair,  and  Brownwell,  a  human 
whirligig  of  gay  gestures,  came  tripping  into  the  room. 
"A  pen,  a  pen,"  —  he  cried,  "my  kingdom  for  a  pen." 
He  was  tugging  at  his  gloves  as  he  spoke,  and  in  the  clat 
ter  that  he  made,  Barclay  found  the  blank  note  and  pushed 
it  toward  the  table's  edge  to  Brownwell,  who  put  his  ornate 
copy-book  signature  upon  it  with  a  flourish. 

When  he  had  gone,  Barclay  wrote  a  note  to  Jane  telling 
her  of  Molly's  engagement  to  Brownwell,  and  then  he  sat 
posting  his  books,  and  figuring  up  his  accounts.  It  was 
after  midnight  when  he  limped  down  the  stairs,  and  the 
rain  had  ceased.  But  a  biting  wind  like  a  cruel  fate  came 
out  of  the  north,  and  he  hurried  through  the  deserted 
street,  under  lowering  clouds  that  scurried  madly  across 
the  stars.  But  John  Barclay  could  not  look  up  at  the 
stars,  he  broke  into  a  limping  run  and  head  downward 
plunged  into  the  gale.  And  never  in  all  his  life  could  he 
\j  take  a  square  look  at  Molly  Culpepper's  diamond  ring. 

As  the  spring  deepened  Bob  Hendricks  felt  upon  him 
at  his  work  the  pressure  of  two  distinct  troubles.  One 
was  his  sweetheart's  attitude  toward  him,  and  the  other 
was  the  increasing  weakness  of  his  father.  Molly  Cul 
pepper's  letters  seemed  to  be  growing  sad ;  also  they  were 
failing  in  their  length  and  frequency  —  the  young  man 
felt  that  they  were  perfunctory.  His  father's  letters 
showed  a  physical  breakdown.  His  handwriting  was  un 
steady,  and  often  he  repeated  himself  in  successive  let 
ters.  The  sister  wrote  about  her  father's  weakness,  and 
seemed  to  think  he  was  working  too  hard.  But  the  soiv 
suspected  that  it  was  worry  rather  than  work,  and  that 
things  were  not  going  right  in  the  bank.  He  did  not  know 
that  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company  had  sapped  the 
money  of  the  bank  and  had  left  it  a  husk,  which  at  any 
time  might  crumble.  The  father  knew  this,  and  after  the 
first  of  the  year  every  morning  when  he  opened  the  bank 
he  feared  that  day  would  be  the  last  day  of  its  career. 

And  so  it  fell  out  that  "  those  that  look  out  of  the 
windows  "  were  darkened,  and  General  Hendricks  rose  up 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  169 

with  the  voice  of  the  bird  and  was  "  afraid  of  that  which 
was  high  "  and  terrors  were  in  the  way.  So  on  his  head, 
the  white  blossom  of  the  almond  tree  trembled ;  and  one 
noon  in  March  the  stage  bore  to  this  broken,  shaking  old 
man  a  letter  from  Kansas  City  that  ran  the  sword  of  fear 
into  his  heart  and  almost  stopped  it  forever.  It  ran :  — 

"  DEAR  GENERAL  :  I  have  just  learned  from  talking  with  a  banker 
here  that  an  inspector  is  headed  our  way.  He  probably  will  arrive 
the  day  after  this  reaches  you.  Something  must  be  done  about  that 
tax  check  of  yours.  The  inspector  should  not  find  it  in  the  drawer 
again.  Once  \vas  all  right,  but  you  must  get  it  out  now.  Put  it  in 
the  form  of  a  note.  Make  it  Carnine's  note.  He  is  good  for  twice 
that.  Don't  bother  him  with  it,  but  make  it  out  for  ninety  days,  and 
by  that  time  we  can  make  another  turn.  But  that  note  must  be  in 
there.  Your  check  won't  do  any  longer.  The  inspector  has  been 
gossiping  about  us  up  here  —  and  about  that  check  of  yours.  For  j 
God's  sake,  don't  hesitate,  but  do  this  thing  quick." 

The  letter  was  not  signed,  but  it  came  in  Barclay's  enve 
lope,  and  was  addressed  by  Barclay's  hand. 

The  general  fumbled  with  the  pad  of  blank  notes  be 
fore  him  for  a  long  time.  He  read  and  reread  Barclay's 
letter.  Then  he  put  away  the  pad  and  tore  the  letter  into 
bits  and  started  for  the  front  door.  But  a  terror  seized 
him,  and  he  walked  behind  the  counter  and  put  his  palsied 
hand  into  the  box  where  he  kept  cancelled  checks,  and 
picked  out  one  of  Gabriel  Carnine's  checks.  He  folded  it 
up,  and  started  for  the  door  again,  but  turned  weakly  at 
the  threshold,  and  walked  to  the  back  room  of  the  bank. 

When  it  was  done,  and  had  been  worked  through  the 
books,  General  Hendricks,  quaking  with  shame  and  fear, 
sat  shivering  before  his  desk  with  jaws  agape  and  the 
forged  name  gashed  into  his  soul.  And  "  the  strong  men  " 
bowed  themselves  as  he  shuffled  home  in  the  twilight.  The 
next  day  when  the  inspector  came,  "  all  the  daughters  of 
music  were  brought  low"  and  the  feeble,  bent,  stricken 
man  piped  and  wheezed  and  stammered  his  confused 
answers  to  the  young  man's  questions,  and  stood  para 
lyzed  with  unspeakable  horror  while  the  inspector  glanced 
at  the  Carnine  note  and  asked  some  casual  question  about 
it.  When  the  bank  closed  that  night,  General  Hendricks 


170  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

tried  to  write  to  his  son  and  tell  him  the  truth,  but  he 
sat  weeping  before  his  desk  and  could  not  put  down  the 
words  he  longed  to  write.  Bob  Hendricks  found  that 
tear-stained  letter  half  finished  in  the  desk  when  he  came 
home,  and  he  kept  it  locked  up  for  years.  And  when  he 
discovered  that  the  date  on  the  letter  and  the  date  on  the 
forged  note  were  the  same,  the  son  knew  the  meaning  of 
the  tears.  But  it  was  all  for  the  Larger  Good,  and  so 
John  Barclay  won  another  game  with  Destiny. 

But  the  silver  cord  was  straining,  and  morning  after 
morning  the  old  pitcher  went  to  the  fountain,  to  be 
battered  and  battered  and  battered.  His  books,  which  he 
kept  himself,  grew  spotted  and  dirty,  and  day  by  day  in 
the  early  spring  the  general  dreaded  lest  some  depositor 
would  come  into  the  bank  and  call  for  a  sum  in  cash  so 
large  that  it  would  take  the  cash  supply  below  the  legal 
limit,  and  that  an  inspector  would  suddenly  appear  again 
and  discover  the  deficiency.  Except  Barclay  the  other 
directors  knew  nothing  of  the  situation.  They  signed 
whatever  reports  the  general  or  Barclay  put  before  them; 
there  came  a  time  in  April  when  any  three  of  a  dozen 
depositors  could  have  taken  every  penny  out  of  the  bank. 
When  the  general  was  unusually  low  in  spirits,  Barclay 
sent  Colonel  Culpepper  around  to  the  bank  with  his 
anthem  about  times  being  better  when  the  spring  really 
opened,  and  for  an  hour  the  general  was  cheerful,  but 
when  the  colonel  went,  the  general  always  saw  the  axe 
hanging  over  his  head.  And  then  one  morning  late  in 
April  —  one  bright  Sunday  morning  —  the  wheel  of  the 
cistern  was  broken,  and  they  found  the  old  man  cold  in  his 
bed  with  his  face  to  the  wall. 

John  Barclay  was  on  a  horse  riding  to  the  railroad  — 
four  hours  away,  before  the  town  was  up  for  late  Sunday 
morning  breakfast.  That  afternoon  he  went  into  Topeka 
on  a  special  engine,  and  told  a  Topeka  banker  who  dealt 
with  the  bank  of  Sycamore  Ridge  the  news  of  the  general's 
death,  and  asked  for  five  thousand  dollars  in  silver  to 
allay  a  possible  run.  At  midnight  he  drove  into  the 
Ridge  with  the  money,  and  the  bank  opened  in  the  morn- 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  171 

ing  at  seven  o'clock  instead  of  nine,  so  that  a  crowd  might 
not  gather,  and  depositors  who  came,  saw  back  of  Barclay 
a  great  heap  of  silver  dollars,  flanked  by  all  the  gold  and 
greenbacks  in  .the  vault,  and  when  a  man  asked  for  his 
money  he  got  it  in  silver,  and  when  Oscar  Fernald  pre 
sented  a  check  for  over  three  thousand  dollars,  Barclay 
paid  it  out  in  silver,  and  in  the  spirit  of  fun,  Sheriff  Jake 
Dolan,  who  heard  of  the  counting  and  recounting  of  the 
money  while  it  was  going  on,  brought  in  a  wheelbarrow 
and  Oscar  wheeled  his  money  to  his  hotel,  while  every 
loafer  in  town  followed  him.  At  noon  Fernald  came 
back  with  his  money,  and  Barclay  refused  to  take  it. 
The  town  knew  that  also.  Barclay  did  not  step  out  of 
the  teller's  cage  during  the  whole  day,  but  Lige  Bemis 
was  his  herald,  and  through  him  Barclay  had  Dolan 
refuse  to  give  Fernald  protection  for  his  money  unless 
Fernald  would  consent  to  be  locked  up  in  jail  with  it. 
In  ten  minutes  the  town  knew  that  story,  and  at  three 
o'clock  Barclay  posted  a  notice  saying  the  bank  would 
remain  open  until  nine  o'clock  that  night,  to  accommodate 
any  depositors  who  desired  their  money,  but  that  it  would 
be  closed  for  three  days  following  until  after  the  funeral 
of  the  president  of  the  bank. 

The  next  day  he  sat  in  the  back  room  of  the  bank  and 
received  privately  nearly  all  the  money  that  had  been 
taken  out  Monday,  and  several  thousand  dollars  besides 
that  came  through  fear  that  Fernald's  cash  would  attract 
robbers  from  the  rough  country  to  the  West  who  might 
loot  the  town.  To  urge  in  that  class  of  depositors,  Bar 
clay  asked  Sheriff  Dolan  to  detail  a  guard  of  fifty  deputies 
about  the  bank  day  and  night,  and  the  day  following  the 
cash  began  coming  in  with  mildew  on  it,  and  Adrian 
Brownwell  appeared  that  night  with  a  thousand  dollars  of 
old  bank-notes,  issued  in  the  fifties,  that  smelled  of  the 
earth.  Thursday  John  limped  up  and  down  the  street  in 
viting  first  one  business  man  and  then  another  into  the 
bank  to  help  him  count  cash  and  straighten  out  his 
balance.  And  each  of  a  dozen  men  believed  for  years 
that  he  was  the  man  who  first  found  the  balance  in  the 


172  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

books  of  the  Exchange  National  Bank  of  Sycamore  Ridge, 
after  John  Barclay  had  got  them  tangled.  And  when 
Barclay  was  a  great  and  powerful  man  in  the  world,  these 
men,  being  interviewed  by  reporters  about  the  personality 
of  Barclay,  took  pride  in  telling  this  story  of  his  blunder 
ing.  But  when  Bob  Hendricks  reached  Sycamore  Ridge 
Thursday  noon,  confidence  in  the  safety  of  the  bank  was 
founded  upon  a  rock. 

So  when  the  town  closed  its  stores  that  afternoon  and 
took  the  body  of  the  general,  its  first  distinguished  citizen 
to  die,  out  upon  the  Hill,  and  laid  it  to  rest  in  the  wild  prairie 
grass,  John  Barclay  and  Jane,  his  wife,  rode  in  the  carriage 
with  the  mourners,  and  John  stood  by  his  friend  through 
the  long  service,  and  when  the  body  was  lowered  into  the 
grave,  the  most  remote  thought  in  all  the  world  from  John's 
mind  was  that  he  was  responsible  for  the  old  man's  death. 

Bob  Hendricks  saw  Molly  Culpepper  for  the  first  time 
in  •  twenty  months,  standing  by  her  father  with  those  who 
gathered  about  the  general's  grave,  and  as  soon  as  he  could 
leave  the  friends  who  came  home  with  him  and  his  sister, 
he  hurried  to  the  Culpeppers'.  As  he  left  his  home,  he 
could  see  Molly  sitting  on  the  veranda  behind  one  of  the 
pillars  of  great  pride.  She  moved  down  the  steps  toward 
the  gate  to  meet  him.  It  was  dusk,  —  deep  dusk,  —  but 
he  knew  her  figure  and  was  thrilled  with  joy.  They 
walked  silently  from  the  gate  toward  the  veranda,  and 
the  youth's  soul  was  moved  too  deeply  for  words.  So 
deeply  indeed  was  his  being  stirred,  that  he  did  not  notice 
in  his  eagerness  to  bring  their  souls  together  how  she  was 
holding  him  away  from  her  heart. 

The  yellow  roses  were  blooming,  and  the  pink  roses  were 
in  bud.  They  strayed  idly  to  the  side  of  the  house  far 
thest  from  the  street,  and  there  they  found  the  lilacs,  heavy 
with  blooms  ;  they  were  higher  than  the  girl's  head,  —  a 
little  thicket  of  them,  —  and  behind  the  thicket  was  a  rustic 
seat  made  of  the  grape-vines.  He  stepped  toward  the 
chair,  pulling  her  by  the  hand,  and  she  followed.  He  tried 
to  gather  her  into  his  arms,  but  she  slid  away  from  him 
and  cried,  "  No  — no,  Bob  — no  I " 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  173 

"Why— why — why  I  what's  wrong?"  gasped  the 
youth. 

The  girl  sank  on  the  seat  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  He  touched  her  shoulder  and  her  hair  with  his 
finger-tips,  and  she  shivered  away  from  him.  "  Oh,  Bob  — 
Bob,  Bob !  — "  she  cried  in  agony,  still  looking  at  the 
grass  before  her. 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  in  perplexity.  "  Why, 
dear-—  why — why,  darling — why,  Molly,"  he  stammered, 
"why —  why — "' 

She  rose  and  faced  him.  She  gripped  herself,  and  he 
could  feel  the  unnatural  firmness  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke. 

"  Bob,  I  am  not  the  little  girl  you  left."  He  put  out  his 
arms,  but  she  shrank  back  among  the  lilacs;  their  perfume 
was  in  her  face,  and  she  was  impressed  with  that  odd  feel 
ing  one  sometimes  has  of  having  had  some  glimpse  of  it 
all  before.  She  knew  that  she  would  say,  "  I  am  not 
worthy — not  worthy  any  more — Bob,  do  vou  under 
stand?" 

And  when  he  had  stepped  toward  her  again  with  piteous 
pleading  face,  —  a  face  that  she  had  never  seen  before,  yet 
seemed  always  to  have  known, — she  felt  that  numb  sense  of 
familiarity  with  it  all,  and  it  did  not  pain  her  as  she  feared 
it  would  when  he  cried,  "Oh — God,  Molly  —  nothing  you 
ever  could  do  would  make  you  unworthy  of  me  —  Molly, 
Molly,  what  is  it  ?  "  The  anguish  in  his  face  flashed  back 
from  some  indefinite  past  to  her,  and  then  the  illusion  was 

fone,  and  the  drama  was  all  new.  He  caught  her,  but  she 
DUght  herself  away. 

"Don't  —  don't!"  she  cried;  "you  have  no  right  — 
now."  She  dropped  into  the  seat,  while  he  stood  over  her 
with  horror  on  his  face.  She  answered  the  question  of 
his  eyes,  rocking  her  body  as  she  spoke,  "  Bob  —  do  you 
understand  now  ?  "  He  shook  his  head,  and  she  went  on, 
"  We  aren't  engaged  —  not  any  more,  Bob  —  not  any  more 
—  never!"  He  started  to  speak,  but  she  said:  "I'm 
going  to  marry  Mr.  Brownwell.  Oh,  Bob  —  Bob,  I  told 
you  I  was  unworthy  —  now  do  you  understand  ?  " 

The  man  turned  his  face  starward  a  second,  and  then 


174  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

dropped  his  head.  "  Oh,"  he  groaned,  and  then  sat  down 
beside  her  at  the  other  end  of  the  bench.  He  folded  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  and  they  sat  silent  for  a  time,  and  then 
he  asked  in  a  dead  voice,  "  You  know  I  love  you  —  still, 
don't  you,  Molly  ?  " 

She  answered,  "Yes,  that's  what  makes  it  hard." 

"  And  do  you  love  me  ?  "  he  cried  with  eagerness. 

She  sat  for  a  minute  without  replying  and  then  an 
swered,  "I  am  a  woman  now,  Bob  —  a  grown  woman,  and 
some  way  things  are  different." 

They  sat  without  speaking;  then  he  drew  a  deep  breath 
and  said,  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go."  His  head 
rested  on  his  hand  which  was  supported  by  an  arm  of  the 
chair.  He  did  not  offer  to  rise. 

She  rose  and  went  to  him,  kneeling  before  him.  She 
put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and  he  put  them  aside, 
and  she  felt  him  shudder.  She  moaned,  and  looked  up  at 
him.  Her  face  was  close  to  his,  but  he  did  not  come 
closer.  He  stared  at  her  dumbly,  and  kept  shaking  his 
head  as  if  asking  some  mute  question  too  deep  for  words. 
Then  he  put  out  his  hand  and  took  hers.  He  put  it 
against  his  cheek  and  held  it  in  both  his  own.  She  did 
not  take  her  eyes  from  his  face,  but  his  eyes  began  to 
wander. 

"I  will  never  see  you  again,  Bob  —  I  mean  like  this." 
She  paused. 

There  was  no  life  in  his  hands,  and  hers  slipped  away 
unrestrained.  "  How  sweet  the  lilacs  smell  to-night,"  he 
said  as  he  drew  in  a  deep  breath.  He  leaned  back  that  he 
might  breathe  more  freely,  and  added  as  he  sighed,  "  I 
shall  smell  them  through  eternity  —  Molly."  Then  he 
rose  and  broke  off  a  spray.  He  helped  her  rise  and  said, 
"Well — so  this  is  the  way  of  it."  His  handsome  fair 
face  was  white  in  the  moonlight,  and  she  saw  that  his  hair 
was  thinning  at  the  temples,  and  the  strange  flash  of 
familiarity  with  it  all  came  again  as  she  inhaled  the  fra 
grance  of  the  lilacs. 

She  trembled  with  some  chill  of  inner  grief,  and  cried 
vehemently,  "Oh,  Bob — my  boy — my  boy  —  say  you 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  175 

hate  me  —  for  God's  love,  say  you  hate  me."  She  came 
so  close  to  him  that  she  touched  him,  then  she  crumpled 
against  the  side  of  the  seat  in  a  storm  of  tears,  but  he 
looked  at  her  steadily  arid  shook  his  head. 

"  Come  on,  Molly.  It's  too  cool  for  you  out  here,"  he 
said,  and  took  her  hand  and  walked  with  her  to  the  steps. 
She  was  blinded  by  her  weeping,  and  he  helped  her  to  the 
veranda,  but  he  stopped  on  a  lower  step  where  his  face 
was  on  a  level  with  hers,  and  dropping  her  hand,  he  said, 
"Well,  good  night,  Molly — good  night — "  and  as  he 
half  turned  from  her,  he  said  in  the  same  voice,  "  Good- 

by-" 

He  went  quickly  down  the  walk  —  a  tall  stalwart  figure, 
and  he  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  wiped  his  forehead 
as  he  went.  At  the  gate  he  looked  back  and  saw  her 
standing  where  he  had  left  her  ;  he  could  still  hear  the 
pitiful  sobs,  but  he  made  no  sign  to  her,  and  she  heard  him 
walking  away  under  the  elms  into  the  night.  When  his 
steps  had  ceased  she  ran  on  tiptoe,  holding  her  breath  to 
silence  her  sobs,  through  the  hall,  up  the  stairs  of  the 
silent  home  to  her  room,  and  locked  the  door.  When  she 
could  not  pray,  she  lay  sobbing  and  groaning  through  a 
long  night. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  next  morning  John  Barclay  gave  Robert  Hen- 
dricks  the  keys  to  the  bank.  Barclay  watched  the  town 
until  nine  o'clock  and  satisfied  himself  that  there  would  be 
no  run  on  the  bank,  for  during  the  early  part  of  the  morn 
ing  young  Hendricks  was  holding  a  reception  in  his  office  ; 
then  Barclay  saddled  a  horse  and  started  for  the  wheat 
fields.  After  the  first  hours  of  the  morning  had  passed, 
and  the  townspeople  had  gone  from  the  bank,  Robert 
Hendricks  began  to  burrow  into  the  books.  He  felt  in 
stinctively  that  he  would  find  there  the  solution  of  the 
puzzle  that  perplexed  him.  For  he  was  sure  Molly  Cul- 
pepper  had  not  jilted  him  wantonly.  He  worked  all  the 
long  spring  afternoon  and  into  the  night,  and  when  he 
could  not  sleep  he  went  back  to  the  bank  at  midnight,  fol 
lowing  some  clew  that  rose  out  of  his  under-consciousness 
and  beckoned  him  to  an  answer  to  his  question. 

The  next  morning  found  him  at  his  counter,  still  worry 
ing  his  books  as  a  ferret  worries  a  rat.  They  were  be 
ginning  to  mean  something  to  him,  and  he  saw  that  the 
b?.nk  was  a  worm-eaten  shell.  When  he  discovered  that 
F.rownwell's  notes  were  not  made  for  bona  fide  loans,  but 
Miat  they  were  made  to  cover  Barclay's  overdrafts,  he  be 
gan  to  find  the  truth,  and  then  when  he  found  that  Colo 
nel  Culpepper  had  lent  the  money  back  to  the  bank  that 
he  borrowed  from  Brownwell,  —  also  to  save  John's  over 
drafts, — Bob  Hendricks'  soul  burned  pale  with  rage.  He 
found  that  John  had  borrowed  far  beyond  the  limit  of  his 
credit  at  the  bank  to  buy  the  company's  stock,  and  that  he 
had  used  Culpepper  and  Brownwell  to  protect  his  account 
when  it  needed  protection.  Hendricks  went  about  his 
work  silently,  serving  the  bank's  customers,  and  greeting 

176 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

his  neighbours  pleasantly,  but  his  heart  was  full  of  a  lust 
to  do  some  bodily  hurt  to  John  Barclay.  When  John 
came  back,  he  sauntered  into  the  bank  so  airily  that  Hen- 
dricks  could  not  put  the  hate  into  his  hands  that  was  in 
his  breast.  John  was  full  of  a  plan  to  organize  a  commis 
sion  company,  buy  all  of  the  wheat  grown  by  the  Golden 
Belt  Wheat  Company  and  make  a  profit  off  the  wheat  com 
pany  for  the  commission  company.  He  had  bargained  with 
the  traffic  officers  of  the  railroad  company  to  accept  stock 
in  the  commission  company  in  return  for  rate  concessions 
on  the  Corn  Belt  Railroad,  which  was  within  a  few  months' 
building  distance  of  Sycamore  Ridge. 

As  John  unfolded  his  scheme,  Bob  eyed  his  partner  al 
most  without  a  word.  A  devil  back  in  some  recess  of  his 
soul  was  thirsting  for  a  quarrel.  But  Bob's  sane  con 
sciousness  would  not  unleash  the  devil,  so  he  replied :  — 

"No — you  go  ahead  with  your  commission  company, 
and  I'll  stick  to  the  wheat  proposition.  That  and  the 
bank  will  keep  me  going." 

The  afternoon  was  late,  and  a  great  heap  of  papers  of 
the  bank  and  the  company  lay  before  them  that  needed 
their  time.  Bob  brushed  his  devil  back  and  went  to 
work.  But  he  kept  looking  at  Barclay's  neck  and  imagin 
ing  his  fingers  closing  upon  it.  When  the  twilight  was 
falling,  Barclay  brought  the  portmanteau  containing  the 
notes  into  the  back  room  and  turning  to  the  "  C's  "  pulled 
out  a  note  for  nine  thousand  dollars  signed  by  Gabriel 
Carnine,  who  was  then  county  treasurer.  Barclay  put  it 
on  the  table  before  Hendricks  and  looked  steadily  at  him 
a  minute  before  saying,  "Bob — see  that  note?"  And 
when  the  young  man  answered,  the  other  returned  :  "  We 
had  to  do  that,  and  several  other  tilings,  this  spring  to 
tide  us  over.  I  didn't  bother  you  with  it  —  but  we  just 
had  to  do  it — or  close  up,  and  go  to  pieces  with  the 
wheat  scheme." 

Hendricks  picked  up  the  note,  and  after  examining  it  a 
moment,  asked  quickly,  "  John,  is  that  Gabe's  signature?  " 

"  No  —  I  couldn't  get  Gabe  to  sign  it  —  and  we  had  to 
have  it  to  make  his  account  balance." 


3  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

"  And  you  forged  his  note,  —  and  are  carrying  it  ?"  cried 
Hendricks,  rising. 

"  Oh,  sit  down,  Bob  —  we  did  it  here  amongst  hands. 
It  wasn't  exactly  my  affair,  the  way  it  got  squared 
around." 

Hendricks  took  the  note  to  the  window.  He  was 
flushed,  and  the  devil  got  into  his  eyes  when  he  came  back, 
and  he  cried,  "  And  you  made  father  do  it  !  " 

Barclay  smiled  pacifically,  and  limped  over  to  Hen 
dricks  and  took  the  note  from  him  and  put  it  back  into 
the  portmanteau.  Then  Barclay  replied :  "  No,  Bob,  I 
didn't  make  your  father  —  the  times  made  your  father. 
It  was  that  or  confess  to  Gabe  Carnine,  who  swelled  up 
on  taking  his  job,  that  we  hadn't  paid  the  taxes  on  the 
company's  land,  though  our  check  had  been  passed  for  it. 
When  it  came  in,  we  gave  the  county  treasurer  credit  on 
his  daily  bankbook  for  the  nine  thousand,  but  we  held 
out  the  check.  Do  you  see?  " 

"  Yes,  that  far,"  replied  Hendricks. 

"  Well,  it's  a  long  story  after  that,  but  when  I  found 
Gabe  wouldn't  accommodate  us  for  six  months  by  giving 
us  his  note  to  carry  as  cash  until  we  could  pay  it,  —  the 
inspectors  wouldn't  take  mine  or  your  father's,  —  and  our 
books  had  to  show  the  amount  of  gross  cash  that  the  treas 
urer  deposited  before  Gabe  came  in,  your  father  thought 
it  unwise  to  keep  holding  checks  that  had  already 
been  paid  in  the  drawer  as  cash  for  that  nine  thousand, 
so  we  —  well,  one  day  he  just  put  this  note  in,  and  worked 
it  through  the  books." 

Hendricks  had  his  devil  well  in  hand  as  he  stared  at 
Barclay,  and  then  said:  "  John  — this  is  mighty  dangerous 
business.  Are  we  carrying  his  account  nine  thousand 
short  on  our  books,  and  making  his  pass-book  balance  ?  " 

"That's  it,  only  —  " 

"  But  suppose  some  one  finds  it  out  ?  "  asked  Hendricks. 

"  Oh,  now,  Bob,  keep  your  shirt  on.  I  fixed  that.  You 
know  they  keep  two  separate  accounts,  —  a  general  main 
tenance  account  and  a  bond  account,  and  Gabe  has  been 
letting  us  keep  the  paid-off  bonds  in  the  vault  and  look 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  179 

after  their  cancelling,  and  while  he  was  sick,  I  was  in 
charge  of  the  treasurer's  office  and  had  the  run  of  the 
bank,  and  I  squared  our  account  at  the  Eastern  fiscal 
agency  and  in  the  bond  account  in  the  treasurer's  office, 
and  fixed  up  the  short  maintenance  account  all  with  nine 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  old  bonds  that  were  kicking 
around  the  vault  uncancelled,  and  now  the  job  is  hermeti 
cally  sealed  so  far  as  the  treasurer  and  the  bank  are  con 
cerned." 

"  So  we  can't  pay  it  back  if  we  want  to  ?  Is  that  the  way, 
John  ? "  asked  Hendricks,  his  fingers  twitching  as  he 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"Ah,  don't  get  so  tragic  about  it.  Some  day  when 
Gabe  has  calmed  down,  and  wants  a  renomination,  I'll 
take  him  in  the  back  room  and  show  him  the  error  that 
we've  both  made,  and  we'll  just  quietly  put  back  the 
money  and  give  him  the  laugh."  There  was  a  pause,  and 
Barclay  tilted  his  chair  back  and  grinned.  "  It's  all  right, 
Bob  —  we  were  where  we  had  to  do  it ;  the  books  balance 
to  a  <•  T '  now  —  and  we'll  square  it  with  Gabe  sometime." 

"  But  if  we  can't  —  if  Gabe  won't  be  —  be  —  well,  be 
reasonable?  What  then?"  asked  Hendricks. 

"  Oh,  well,"  returned  John,  "  I've  thought  of  that  too. 
And  you'll  find  that  when  the  county  treasury  changes 
hands  in  '79,  you'll  have  to  look  after  the  bond  account 
and  the  treasurer's  books  and  make  a  little  entry  to  sat 
isfy  the  bonds  when  they  really  fall  due;  then — I'll 
show  you  about  it  when  we're  over  at  the  court-house. 
But  if  we  can't  get  the  money  back  with  Gabe  or  the 
next  man,  the  time  will  come  when  we  can." 

And  Bob  Hendricks  looked  at  the  natty  little  man  be 
fore  him  and  sighed,  and  began  working  for  the  Larger 
Good  also.  And  afterwards  as  the  months  flew  by  the 
Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company  paid  the  interest  on  the 
forged  note,  and  the  bank  paid  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat 
Company  interest  on  a  daily  ledger  balance  of  nine  thou 
sand,  and  all  went  happily.  The  Larger  Good  accepted  ^/ 
the  sacrifices  of  truth,  and  went  on  its  felicitous  way. 

After   Barclay   left   the   bank   that   night,   Hendricks 


180  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

found  still  more  of  the  truth.  And  the  devil  in  the 
background  of  his  soul  came  out  and  glared  through  the 
young  man's  sleepless  eyes  as  he  appeared  in  Barclay's 
office  in  the  morning  and  said,  before  he  had  found  a 
chair,  "John,  what's  your  idea  about  those  farmers' 
mortgages?  Are  you  going  to  let  them  pay  them,  or  are 
you  going  to  make  them  sell  under  that  option  that  you've 
got  in  them?  " 

"Why,"  asked  Barclay,  "what's  it  to  us?  Haven't 
the  courts  decided  that  that  kind  of  an  option  is  a  sale  — • 
clear  through  to  the  United  States  Supreme  Court  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?"  persisted 
Hendricks. 

Barclay  squinted  sidewise  at  his  partner  for  a  few  sec 
onds  and  said,  "  Well,  it's  no  affair  of  ours ;  we've  sold  all 
the  mortgages  anyway." 

Hendricks  wagged  his  head  impatiently  and  exclaimed, 
"  Quit  your  dodging  and  give  me  a  square  answer — what 
have  you  got  up  your  sleeve  about  those  options?" 

Barclay  rose,  limped  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  as 
he  answered  :  "  Well,  I've  always  supposed  we'd  fix  it 
up  some  way  to  buy  back  those  mortgages  and  then  take 
the  land  we  want  for  ourselves  —  for  you  and  me  person 
ally  —  and  give  the  poor  land  back  to  the  farmers  if  they 
pay  the  money  we  lent  them." 

"  Well,"  returned  Hendricks,  "  just  count  me  out  on 
that.  Whatever  I  make  in  this  deal,  and  you  seem  to 
think  our  share  will  be  plent}r,  goes  to  getting  those  farm 
ers  back  their  land.  So  far  as  I'm  concerned  that  money 
we  paid  them  was  rent,  not  a  loan  !  " 

Barclay  dropped  his  hands  in  astonishment  and  gaped 
at  Hendricks. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Miss  Nancy,"  he  exclaimed,  "  when 
did  you  get  religion?" 

The  two  men  glared  at  each  other  a  moment,  and  Hen 
dricks  grappled  his  devil  and  drew  a  long  breath  and 
replied :  "  Well,  you  heard  what  I  said."  And  then  he 
added :  "  I'm  pretty  keen  for  money,  John,  but  when  it 
comes  to  skinning  a  lot  of  neighbours  out  of  land  that  you 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  181 

and  every  one  says  is  going  to  raise  thirty  dollars'  worth 
of  wheat  to  the  acre  this  year  alone,  and  only  paying  them 
ten  dollars  an  acre  for  the  title  to  the  land  itself  —  "  He 
did  not  finish.  ,  After  a  pause  he  added :  "  Why,  they'll 
mob  you,  man.  I've  got  to  live  with  those  farmers." 
Barclay  sneered  at  Hendricks  without  speaking  and  Hen- 
dricks  stepped  over  to  him  and  drew  back  his  open  hand 
as  he  said  angrily,  "Stop  it  —  stop  it,  I  say."  Then  he 
exclaimed :  "  I'm  not  what  you'd  call  nasty  nice,  John  — 
but  I'm  no  robber.  I  can't  take  the  rent  of  that  land  for 
nothing,  raise  a  thirty-dollar  crop  on  every  acre  of  it,  and 
make  them  pay  me  ten  dollars  an  acre  to  get  back  the  poor 
land  and  steal  the  good  land  on  a  hocus-pocus  option." 

"  4 1  do  not  use  the  nasty  weed,  said  little  Robert  Reed,'  " 
replied  Barclay,  with  a  leer  on  his  face.  Then  he  added : 
"  I've  held  your  miserable  little  note-shaving  shop  up  by 
main  strength  for  a  year,  by  main  strength  and  awkward 
ness,  and  now  you  come  home  with  your  mouth  all  fixed 
for  prisms  and  prunes,  and  want  to  get  on  a  higher  plane. 
You  try  that,"  continued  Barclay,  and  his  eyes  blazed  at 
Hendricks,  "  arid  you'll  come  down  town  some  morning 
minus  a  bank." 

Then  the  devil  in  Bob  Hendricks  was  freed  for  an  exult 
ant  moment,  as  his  hands  came  out  of  his  pockets  and 
clamped  down  on  Barclay's  shoulders,  and  shook  him  till  his 
teeth  rattled. 

"Not  with  me,  John,  not  with  me,"  he  cried,  and  he 
felt  his  fingers  clutching  for  the  thin  neck  so  near  them, 
and  then  suddenly  his  hands  went  back  to  his  pockets. 
"Now,  another  thing  —  you  got  Brownwell  to  lend  the 
colonel  that  money  ?  ""  Hendricks  was  himself. 

Barclay  nodded. 

"  And  you  got  Brownwell  to  sign  a  lot  of  accommodation 
papsr  there  at  the  bank  ?  " 

"Yes  —  to  cover  our  own  overdrafts,"  retorted  Barclay. 
"It  was  either  that  or  bust  —  and  I  preferred  not  to  bust. 
What's  more,  if  we  had  gone  under  there  at  one  stage  of 
the  game  when  Brownwell  helped  us,  we  could  have  been 
indicted  for  obtaining  money  under  false  pretences  —  you 


182  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

and  I,  I  mean.  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  stick  my  head 
inside  the  jail  and  look  around,"  Barclay  grinned,  "but 
I'll  be  damned  if  I'm  going  clear  inside  for  any  man  —  not 
when  I  can  find  a  way  to  back  out."  Barclay  tried  to 
laugh,  but  Hendricks  would  not  let  him. 

"And  so  you  put  up  Molly  to  bail  you  out."  Barclay 
did  not  answer  and  Hendricks  went  on  bitterly :  "  Oh, 
you're  a  friend,  John  Barclay,  you're  a  loyal  friend. 
You've  sold  me  out  like  a  dog,  John  —  like  a  dog !  " 

Barclay,  sitting  at  his  desk,  playing  with  a  paper-weight, 
snarled  back  :  "  Why  don't  you  get  in  the  market  yourself, 
if  you  think  I've  sold  you  out  ?  Why  don't  you  lend  the  old 
man  some  money?  " 

"  And  take  it  from  the  bank  you've  just  got  done  robbing 
of  everything  but  the  wall-paper  ?  "  Hendricks  retorted. 

"  No,"  cried  Barclay,  in  a  loud  voice.  "  Come  off  your 
high  horse  and  take  the  profits  we'll  make  on  our  wheat, 
pay  off  old  Brown  well  and  marry  her." 

"And  let  the  bank  bust  and  the  farmers  slide?  "  asked 
Hendricks,  "  and  buy  back  Molly  with  stolen  money  ?  Is 
that  your  idea?" 

"  Well,"  Barclay  snapped,  "  you  have  your  choice,  so  if 
you  think  more  of  the  bank  and  your  old  hayseeds  than 
you  do  of  Molly,  don't  come  blubbering  around  me  about 
selling  her." 

"  John,"  sighed  Hendricks,  after  a  long  wrestle  —  a  final 
contest  with  his  demon,  "  I've  gone  all  over  that.  And  I 
have  decided  that  if  I've  got  to  swindle  seventy-fiVe  or  a 
hundred  farmers  —  most  of  them  old  soldiers  on  their 
homesteads  —  out  of  their  little  all,  .and  cheat  five  hundred 
depositors  out  of  their  money  to  get  Molly,  she  and  I 
wouldn't  be  very  happy  when  we  thought  of  the  price, 
and  we'd  always  think  of  the  price."  His  demon  was 
limp  in  the  background  of  his  soul  as  he  added :  "  Here 
are  some  papers  I  brought  over.  Let's  get  back  to  the 
settlement  —  fix  them  up  and  bring  them  over  to  the  bank 
this  morning,  will  you?"  And  laying  a  package  care 
fully  on  the  table,  Hendricks  turned  and  went  quickly  out 
of  the  room. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  183 

After  Hendricks  left  the  office  that  May  morning,  Bar 
clay  sat  whistling  the  air  of  the  song  of  the  "  Evening 
Star,"  looking  blankly  at  a  picture  of  Wagner  hanging 
beside  a  picture  of  Jay  Gould.  The  tune  seemed  to  re 
store  his  soul.  When  he  had  been  whistling  softly  for 
rive  minutes  or  so,  the  idea  flashed  across  his  mind  that 
flour  was  the  one  thing  used  in  America  more  than  any 
other  food  product  and  that  if  a  man  had  his  money  in 
vested  in  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  flour,  he  would  have 
an  investment  that  would  weather  any  panic.  The  idea 
overcame  him,  and  he  shut  his  eyes  and  his  ears  and  gripped 
his  chair  and  whistled  and  saw  visions.  Molly  Culpepper 
came  into  the  room,  and  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold 
as  one  afraid  to  interrupt  a  sleeper.  She  saw  the  dapper 
little  man  kicking  the  chair  rounds  with  his  dangling 
heels,  his  flushed  face  reflecting  a  brain  full  of  blood,  his 
eyes  shut,  his  head  thrown  far  back,  so  that  his  Adam's 
apple  stuck  up  irrelevantly,  and  she  knew  only  by  the  per 
sistence  of  the  soft  low  whistle  that  he  was  awake,  clutch 
ing  at  some  day-dream.  When  she  cleared  her  throat,  he 
was  startled  and  stared  at  her  foolishly  for  a  moment,  with 
the  vision  still  upon  him.  His  wits  came  to  him,  and  he 
rose  to  greet  her. 

"  Well  —  well  —  why  —  hello,  Molly  —  I  was  just  figur 
ing  on  a  matter,"  he  said  as  he  put  her  in  a  chair,  and  then 
he  added,  "  Well  —  I  wasn't  expecting  you." 

Even  before  she  could  speak  his  lips  were  puckering  to 
pick  up  the  tune  he  had  dropped.  She  answered,  "  No, 
John,  I  wanted  to  see  you —  so  I  just  came  up." 

"Oh, that's  all  right,  Molly — what  is  it?"  he  returned. 

"  Well  —  "  answered  the  young  woman,  listlessly,  "  it's 
aboii!;  father.  You  know  he's  badly  in  debt,  and  some 
way  —  of  course  he  sells  lots  of  land  and  all,  but  you  know 
father,  John,  and  he  just  doesn't  —  oh,  he  just  keeps  in 
debt." 

Barclay  had  been  lapsing  back  into  his  revery  as  she 
spoke,  but  he  pulled  himself  out  and  replied :  "  Oh,  yes, 
Molly  —  I  know  about  father  all  right.  Can't  you  make 
him  straighten  things  out  ?  " 


184  A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN 

"  Well,  no.  John,  that's  just  it.  His  money  comes  in 
so  irregularly,  this  month  a  lot  and  next  month  nothing, 
that  it  just  spoils  him.  When  he  gets  a  lot  he  spends  it  like  a 
prince,"  she  smiled  sadly  and  interjected :  "  You  know  he 
is  forever  giving  away  —  and  then  while  he's  waiting  he 
gets  in  debt  again.  Then  we  are  as  poor  as  the  people  for 
whom  he  passes  subscription  papers,  and  that's  just  what 
I  wanted  to  see  you  about." 

Barclay  took   his  eyes  off   Jay    Gould's   picture   long  j 
enough  to  look  at  the  brown-eyed  girl  with  an  oval  face  ^ 
and  a  tip  of  a  chin  that  just  fitted  the  hollow  of  a  man's 
hand;  there  were  the  smallest  brown  freckles  in  the  world 
across  the  bridge  of  her  nose,  and  under  her  eyes  there 
was  the  faintest  suggestion  of  dark  shading.     Youth  was 
in  her  lips  and  cheeks,  and  when  she  smiled  there  were 
dimples.     But  John's   eyes  went   back   to    Jay    Gould's 
(solemn  black  whiskers  and  he  said  from  his  abstraction, 
*  Well,  Molly,  I  wish  I  could  help  you." 

"  Well,  I  knew  you  would,  John,  some  way;  and  oh,  John, 
I  do  need  help  so  badly."  She  paused  a  moment  and 
gazed  at  him  piteously  and  repeated, "  So  badly."  But 
his  eyes  did  not  move  from  the  sacred  whiskers  of  his  joss. 
The  vision  was  flaming  in  his  brain,  and  with  his  lips 
parted,  he  whistled  "  The  Evening  Star  "  to  conjure  it  back 
and  keep  it  with  him.  The  girl  went  on:  — 

"About  that  money  Mr.  Brown  well  loaned  father,  John." 
She  flushed  and  cried,  "Can't  you  find  some  way  for 
father  to  borrow  the  money  and  pay  Mr.  Brownwell  — 
now  that  your  wheat  is  turning  out  so  well  ?  " 

The  young  man  pulled  himself  out  of  his  day-dream  and 
said,  "  Well  —  why  —  you  see,  Molly —  I  —  Well  now,  to 
be  entirely  frank  with  you,  Molly,  I'm  going  into  a  busi 
ness  that  will  take  all  of  my  credit  —  and  every  cent  of 
my  money." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  the  girl  asked,  "  Tell  me, 
John,  will  the  wheat  straighten  things  up  at  the  bank  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  might  if  Bob  had  any  sense  —  but  he's  got  a 
fool  notion  of  considering  a  straight  mortgage  that  those 
farmers  gave  on  their  land  as  rent,  and  isn't  going  to  make 


A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  185 

them  redeem  their  land,  —  his  share  of  it,  I  mean,  —  and 
if  he  doesn't  do  that,  he'll  not  have  a  cent,  and  he  couldn't 
lend  your  father  any  money."  Barclay  was  anxious  to  get 
back  to  his  "  Evening  Star  "  and  his  dream  of  power,  so  he 
asked,  "  Why,  Molly,  what's  wrong  ?  " 

"  John,"  she  began,  "  this  is  a  miserable  business  to  talk 
about ;  but  it  is  business,  I  guess."  She  stopped  and 
looked  at  him  piteously.  "  Well,  John,  father's  debt  to  Mr. 
Brownwell  —  the  ten-thousand-dollar  loan  on  the  house 
—  will  be  due  in  August."  The  young  man  assented. 
And  after  a  moment  she  sighed,  "  That  is  why  I'm  to  be 
married  in  August."  She  stood  a  moment  looking  out  of 
the  window  and  cried,  "  Oh,  John,  John,  isn't  there  some 
way  out  —  isn't  there,  John  ?  " 

Barclay  rose  and  limped  to  her  and  answered  harshly  : 
"  Not  so  long  as  Bob  is  a  fool  —  no,  Molly.  If  he  wants  to 
go  mooning  around  releasing  those  farmers  from  their 
mortgages — there's  no  way  out.  But  I  wouldn't  care 
for  a  man  who  didn't  think  more  of  me  than  he  did  of  a 
lot  of  old  clodhoppers." 

The  girl  looked  at  the  hard-faced  youth  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  turned  without  a  word  and  left  the  room. 
Barclay  floated  away  on  his  "  Evening  Star  "  and  spun 
out  his  dream  as  a  spider  spins  his  web,  and  when  Hen- 
dricks  came  into  the  office  for  a  mislaid  paper  half  an  hour 
later,  Barclay  still  was  figuring  up  profits,  and  making  his 
web  stronger.  As  Hendricks,  having  finished  his  errand, 
was  about  to  go,  Barclay  stopped  him. 

"  Bob,  Molly's  been  up  here.  As  nearly  as  I  can  get  at 
it,  Brownwell  has  promised  to  renew  the  colonel's  mort-  f 
gage  in  August.  If  he  and  Molly  aren't  married  by  then  j 
— no  more  renewals  from  him.  Don't  be  a  fool,  Bob ;  let  your  1 
sod-busters  go  hang.  If  you  don't  get  their  farms,  some  \ 
one  else  will!" 

Hendricks  looked  at  his  partner  a  minute  steadily, 
grunted,  and  strode  out  of  the  room.  And  the  incident 
slipped  from  John  Barclay's  mind,  and  the  web  of  the  spider 
grew  stronger  and  stronger  in  his  brain,  but  it  cast  a 
shadow  that  was  to  reach  across  his  life. 


186  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

After  Hendricks  went  from  his  office  that  morning, 
Barclay  bounded  back,  like  a  boy  at  play,  to  the  vision  of 
controlling  the  flour  market.  He  saw  the  waving  wheat 
of  Garrison  County  coming  to  the  railroad,  and  he  knew 
that  his  railroad  rates  were  so  low  that  the  miller  on  the 
Sycamore  could  not  ship  a  pound  of  flour  profitably,  and 
Barclay's  mind  gradually  comprehended  that  through  rail 
road  rates  he  controlled  the  mill,  and  could  buy  it  at  his  leis 
ure,  upon  his  own  terms.  Then  the  whole  scheme  unfolded 
itself  before  his  closed  eyes  as  he  sat  with  his  head  tilted 
back  and  pillowed  in  his  hands.  If  his  railroad  concession 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  underbid  the  miller  at  the 
Ridge,  why  could  he  not  get  other  railroad  concessions 
and  underbid  every  miller  along  the  line  of  the  Corn  Belt 
road,  by  dividing  profits  with  the  railroad  officials  ?  As  he 
spun  out  his  vision,  he  could  hear  the  droning  voices  of 
General  Ward  and  Colonel  Culpepper  in  the  next  room; 
but  he  did  not  heed  them. 

They  were  discussing  the  things  of  the  day,  —  indeed,  the 
things  of  a  fortnight  before,  to  be  precise,  —  the  reception 
given  by  the  Culpeppers  to  celebrate  their  silver  wedding 
anniversary.  The  windows  were  open,  and  Barclay  could 
hear  the  men's  voices,  and  he  knew  vaguely  that  they  were 
talking  of  Lige  Bemis.  For  Barclay  had  tactfully  asked 
the  colonel  as  a  favour  to  invite  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bemis  to  the 
silver  wedding  reception.  So  the  Bemises  came.  Mrs. 
Bemis,  who  was  rather  stout,  even  for  a  woman  in  her 
early  forties,  wore  black  satin  and  jet  ornaments,  including 
black  jet  ear  bobs  of  tremendous  size.  And  Watts  Mc- 
Hurdie  was  so  touched  by  the  way  ten  years  under  a  roof 
had  tamed  the  woman  whom  he  had  known  of  old  as  "  Happy 
Hallie,"  that  he  wrote  a  poem  for  the  Banner  about  the 
return  of  the  "  Prodigal  Daughter,"  which  may  be  found 
in  Garrison  County  scrap-books  of  that  period.  As  for 
Mr.  Bemis,  he  went  slinking  about  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  showing  his  teeth  considerably,  and  making  «it  ob 
vious  that  he  was  there. 

So  as  John  Barclay  rode  his  "Evening  Star"  to  glon  fe in 
the  next  room  General  Ward  turned  to  the  colonel,  *  ho 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  187 

stood  puffing  in  the  doorway  of  the  general's  law-office, 
"  Martin,  did  John  Barclay  make  you  invite  that  woman 
to  your  house  —  that  Bemis  woman  ?  " 

The  colonel  got  his  breath  slowly  after  climbing  the 
stair,  and  he  did  not  reply  at  once.  But  he  smiled,  and 
stood  with  his  arms  akimbo  a  few  seconds  before  he  spoke. 
"  Well  now,  General  —  since  you  ask  it,  I  may  as  well  con 
fess  it  pointedly  —  I  am  ashamed  to  say  he  did  !  " 

Ward  motioned  the  colonel  to  a  seat  and  asked  impa 
tiently,  «  Ashamed  ?  " 

"  Well,"  responded  Culpepper,  as  he  put  his  feet  in  the 
window  ledge,  "  she's  as  good  as  I  am  —  if  you  come  down 
to  that  !  Why  shouldn't  I,  who  pretend  to  be  a  gentleman, 
—  a  Virginia  gentleman,  I  may  say,  sir,  —  why  shouldn't 
I  be  ashamed,  disgraced,  sir,  disgraced  in  point  of  fact,  that 
I  had  to  be  forced  to  invite  any  person  in  all  God's  beauti 
ful  world  to  my  home  ?  " 

Ward  looked  at  the  colonel  coldly  a  moment  and  then 
blurted  out :  "  Ah,  shucks,  sir  —  stuff  and  nonsense  !  You 
know  what  she  was  before  the  war  —  Happy  Hally  !  My 
gracious,  Martin,  how  could  you?  " 

Martin  Culpepper  brought  his  chair  down  with  a  bang 
and  turned  squarely  to  Ward.  "General,  the  war's  over 
now.  I  knew  Happy  Hally  —  and  I  knew  the  Red  Legs  she 
trained  with.  And  we're  making  senators  and  governors 
and  state  officers  and  indeed,  I  may  say,  prominent  citizens 
out  of  them.  Why  not  give  Hally  her  show?  You  damn 
cold-nosed  Yankee  Brahmins  —  you  have  Faith  and  you 
have  Hope,  but  you  have  no  more  Charity  than  a  sausage- 
grinder."  The  colonel  rose,  and  cried  with  some  asperity, 
44  General,  if  you'd  preach  about  the  poor  less,  and  pray 
with  'em  more,  you'd  know  more  about  your  fellow-men, 
sir !  " 

Perhaps  this  conversation  should  not  have  been  set  down 
here  ;  for  it  has  no  direct  relation  to  the  movement  of  this 
narrative.  The  narrative  at  this  point  should  be  hurrying 
along  to  tell  how  John  Barclay  and  Bob  Hendricks  cleared 
up  a  small  fortune  on  their  wheat  deal,  and  how  that 
autumn  Barclay  bought  the  mill  at  Sycamore  Ridge  by 


188  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

squeezing  its  owner  out,  and  then  set  about  to  establish 
four  branches  of  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company's 
elevator  service  along  the  line  of  the  new  railroad,  and 
how  he  controlled  the  wheat  output  of  three  counties  the 
next  year  through  his  enterprise.  These  facts  carry 
John  Barclay  forward  toward  his  life's  goal.  And  while 
these  two  middle-aged  gentlemen  —  the  general  and  the 
colonel  —  were  in  the  next  room  wrangling  over  the  youth 
ful  love  affairs  of  a  middle-aged  lady,  a  great  dream  was 
shaping  in  Barclay's  head,  and  he  did  not  heed  them.  He 
was  dreaming  of  controlling  the  wheat  market  of  the 
Golden  Belt  Railroad,  through  railroad-rate  privileges,  and 
his  fancy  was  feeling  its  way  into  flour,  and  comprehend 
ing  what  might  be  done  with  wheat  products. 

It  was  a  crude  dream,  but  he  was  aflame  with  it,  and 
yet  —  John  Barclay,  aged  twenty-five,  was  a  young  man 
with  curly  hair  and  flattered  himself  that  he  could  sing. 
And  there  was  always  in  him  that  side  of  his  nature,  so 
the  reader  must  know  that  when  Nellie  Logan  came  to 
his  office  that  bright  summer  morning  and  found  him 
t  wrapped  in  his  day-dream  of  power,  she  addressed  herself 
j  not  to  the  Thane  of  Wheat  who  should  be  King  hereafter, 
but  to  the  baritone  singer  in  the  Congregational  choir,  and 
the  wheat  king  scampered  back  to  the  dream  world  when 
John  replied  to  Nellie's  question. 

"  So  it's  your  wedding,  is  it,  Nellie  —  your  wedding,"  he 
repeated.  "  Well,  where  does  Watts  come  in  ?  "  And  then, 
before  she  answered,  he  went  on,  "You  bet  I'll  sing  at 
your  wedding,  and  what's  more,  I'll  bring  along  my  limp 
ing  Congregational  foot,  and  I'll  dance  at  your  wedding." 
"Well, I  just  knew  you  would,"  said  the  young  woman. 
"So  old  Watts  thought  I  wouldn't,  did  he?"  asked 
Barclay.  "  The  old  skeezicks  —  Well,  well !  Nellie,  you 
tell  him  that  the  fellow  who  was  with  Watts  when  he  was 
shot  ten  miles  from  Springfield  isn't  going  to  desert  him 
when  he  gets  a  mortal  wound  in  the  heart."  Then  Bar 
clay  added:  "You  get  the  music  and  take  it  down  to 
Jane,  and  tell  her  to  teach  me,  and  I'll  be  there.  Jane 
says  you're  going  to  put  old  Watts  through  all  the  gaits." 


A   CERTAIN    RICH   MAN  189 

He  leaned  back  in  his  swivel  chair  and  smiled  at  his 
visitor.  He  had  a  slow  drawl  that  he  used  in  teasing,  and 
one  who  heard  that  voice  and  afterward  heard  the  harsh 
bark  of  the  man  in  driving  a  bargain  or  browbeating  an 
adversary  would  have  to  look  twice  to  realize  that  the 
same  man  was  talking.  A  little  over  an  hour  before  in 
that  very  room  he  had  looked  at  Bob  Hendricks  from 
under  wrinkled  brows  with  the  vertical  line  creased 
between  his  eyes  and  snarled,  "  Well,  then,  if  you  think 
she's  going  to  marry  that  fellow  because  I  got  him  to 
lend  the  colonel  some  money,  why  don't  you  go  and  lend 
the  colonel  some  more  money  and  get  her  back  ?  " 

But  there  was  not  a  muscle  twitching  in  his  face  as  he 
talked  to  Nellie  Logan,  not  a  break  in  his  voice,  not  a 
ruffle  of  a  hair,  to  tell  her  that  John  Barclay  had  broken 
with  the  friend  of  his  boyhood  and  the  partner  of  his 
youth,  and  that  he  had  closed  and  bolted  the  Door  of  Hope 
on  Molly  Culpepper.  He  drawled  on  :  "  Jane  was  saying 
that  you  were  going  to  have  Bob  and  Molly  for  best  man 
and  bridesmaid.  Ought  you  to  do  that?  You  know 
they—" 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  she  replied:  "  Oh, 
yes,  I  know  about  that.  I  told  Watts  he  ought  to  have 
Mr.  Brownwell ;  but  he's  as  stubborn  as  a  mule  about 
just  that  one  thing.  Everything  else  —  the  flower  girls 
and  the  procession  and  the  ring  service  and  all  —  he's  so 
nice  about.  And  you  know  I  just  had  to  have  Molly." 

John  slapped  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  laughed.  "  As 
old  Daddy  Mason  says,  'Now  hain't  that  just  like  a 
woman  ! '  Well,  Nellie,  it's  your  wedding,  and  a  woman 
is  generally  not  married  more  than  once,  so  it's  all  right. 
Go  it  while  you're  young." 

And  so  he  teased  her  out  of  the  room,  and  when  Syca 
more  Ridge  packed  itself  into  the  Congregational  Church 
one  June  night,  to  witness  the  most  gorgeous  church  wed 
ding  the  town  ever  had  seen,  John  opened  the  ceremonies 
by  singing  the  "  Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden"  most 
effectively,  and  Sycamore  Ridge  in  its  best  clothes,  rather 
stuffed  and  'uncomfortable  thereby,  was  in  that  unnatural 


190  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

attitude  toward  the  world  where  it  thought  John  Bar* 
clay's  voice,  a  throaty  baritone,  with  much  affectation  in 
the  middle  register,  a  tendency  to  flat  in  the  upper  register, 
and  thick  fuzz  below  "  C,"  was  beautiful,  though  John 
often  remembered  that  night  with  unalloyed  shame.  He 
saw  himself  as  he  stood  there,  primped  to  kill,  like  a  prize 
bull  at  a  fair,  bellowing  out  a  mawkish  sentiment  in  a 
stilted  voice,  and  he  wondered  how  the  Ridge  ever  managed 
to  endure  him  afterwards. 

But  this  is  a  charitable  world,  and  his  temperament  was 
such  that  he  did  not  realize  that  no  one  paid  much  atten 
tion  to  him,  after  the  real  ceremony  started.  When  the 
bride  and  the  bridesmaid  came  down  the  aisle,  Nellie 
Logan  radiant  in  the  gown  which  every  woman  in  the 
church  knew  had  come  from  Chicago  and  had  been  bought 
of  the  drummer  at  wholesale  cost,  saving  the  bride  over 
fifteen  dollars  on  the  regular  price  —  what  did  the  guests 
care  for  a  dapper  little  man  singing  a  hymn  tune  through 
his  nose,  even  if  he  was  the  richest  young  man  in  town? 
And  when  Molly  Culpepper  —  dear  little  Molly  Culpepper 
—  came  after  the  bride,  blushing  through  her  powder,  and 
looking  straight  at  the  floor  for  fear  her  eyes  would  wander 
after  her  heart  and  wondering  if  the  people  knew  —  it  was 
of  no  consequence  that  John  Barclay's  voice  frazzled  ou 
"  F  "  ;  for  if  the  town  wished  to  notice  a  man  at  that  wed 
ding,  there  was  Watts  McHurdie  in  a  paper  collar,  with  a 
white  embroidered  bow  tie  and  the  first  starched  shirt  the 
town  had  ever  seen  him  wear,  badly  out  of  step  with  the 
procession,  while  the  best  man  dragged  him  like  an  un 
willing  victim  to  the  altar ;  and  of  course  there  was  the 
best  man,  —  and  a  handsome  best  man  as  men  go,  —  fair- 
skinned,  light-haired,  blue-eyed,  with  a  good  glow  on  his 
immobile  face  and  rather  sad  eyes  that,  being  in  a  man's 
head,  went  boldly  where  they  chose  and  where  all  the 
women  in  the  town  could  see  them  go.  So  there  were 
other  things  to  remember  that  night  besides  John  Barclay's 
singing  and  the  festive  figure  he  cut  at  that  wedding: 
there  was  the  wedding  supper  at  the  Wards',  and  the  wedding 
reception  at  the  Culpeppers',  and  after  it  all  the  dance  in 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  191 

Culpepper  Hall.  And  all  the  town  remembers  these 
things,  but  only  two  people  remember  a  moment  after  the 
reception  when  every  one  was  hurrying  away  to  the  dance 
and  when  the  bridesmaid  —  such  a  sweet,  pretty  little 
bridesmaid  —  was  standing  alone  in  a  deserted  room  with 
a  tall  groomsman  —  just  for  a  moment  —  just  for  a  moment 
before  Adrian  Brown  well  came  up  bustling  and  bristling, 
but  long  enough  to  say,  "  Bob  —  did  you  take  my  gloves 
there  in  the  carriage  as  we  were  coming  home  from  the 
church?"  and  long  enough  for  him  to  answer,  "  Why, 
did  you  lose  them  ?  "  and  then  to  get  a  good  square  look 
into  her  eyes.  It  was  only  a  few  seconds  in  the  long 
evening — 'less  than  a  second  that  their  eyes  met;  but  it  was 
enough  to  be  remembered  forever  ;  though  why  —  you 
say  !  It  was  all  so  commonplace ;  there  was  nothing  in  it 
that  you  would  have  thought  worth  remembering  for  a 
moment.  "  Bob,  did  you  take  my  gloves  ?  "  "  Why,  did 
you  lose  them  ?  "  and  then  a  glance  of  the  eyes.  Surely 
there  are  more  romantic  words  than  these.  But  when  a 
man  and  a  woman  go  in  for  collecting  antiques  in  their 
dialogues,  Heaven  only  knows  what  old  rubbish  you  will 
find  in  their  attics,  scoured  off  and  rebuilt  and  polished 
with  secret  tears  until  the  old  stuff  glows  like  embers. 

And  that  is  why,  when  the  music  was  silent  in  Cul 
pepper  Hall,  and  the  tall  young  man  walked  slowly  home 
alone,  as  he  clicked  his  own  gate  behind  him,  he  brought 
from  his  pocket  two  little  white  gloves,  — just  two  ordinary 
white  gloves,  —  and  held  them  to  his  lips  and  lifted  his  arms 
in  despair  once  and  let  them  drop  as  he  stood  before  his 
doorstep.  And  that  is  why  a  girl,  a  little  girl  with  the 
weariest  face  in  the  town,  looked  out  of  her  bedroom 
window  that  night  and  whispered  over  and  over  to  herself 
the  name  she  dared  not  speak.  And  all  this  was  going 
on  while  the  town  was  turning  over  in  its  bed,  listening  to 
the  most  tumultuous  charivari  that  Sycamore  Ridge  has 
ever  known. 

Night  after  night  that  summer  faithful  Jake  Dolan 
walked  the  streets  of  Sycamore  Ridge  with  Bob  Hendricks. 
By  day  they  lived  apart,  but  at  night  the  young  man 


192  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

often  would  look  up  the  elder,  and  they  would  walk  and 
walk  together,  but  never  once  did  Hendricks  mention 
Molly's  name  nor  refer  to  her  in  any  way  ;  yet  Jake  Dolan 
knew  why  they  walked  abroad.  How  did  he  know  ? 
How  do  we  know  so  many  things  in  this  world  that  are 
neither  seen  nor  heard?  And  the  Irish — they  have  the 
drop  of  blood  that  defies  mathematics  ;  the  Irish  are  the 
only  people  in  the  world  whom  kind  Providence  permits 
to  add  two  and  two  together  to  make  six.  "  You  say 
'tis  four,"  said  Dolan,  one  night,  as  he  and  Hendricks  stood 
on  the  bridge  listening  to  the  roar  from  the  dam.  "I  say 
'tis  six.  There  is  this  and  there  is  that  and  you  say  they 
make  the  other.  Not  at  all  ;  they  make  something  else 
entirely  different.  You  take  your  two  and  your  two  and 
make  your  four  and  try  your  four  on  the  world,  and  it 
works  —  yes,  it  works  up  to  a  point ;  but  there  is  some 
thing  left  over,  something  unexplained  ;  you  don't  know 
what.  I  do.  It's  the  other  two.  Therefore  I  say  to 
you,  Mr.  Robert  Hendricks,  that  two  and  two  make  six, 
because  God  loves  the  Irish,  and  for  no  other  reason  on 
earth." 

So  much  for  the  dreams  of  Molly,  the  memories  of  Bob, 
and  the  vagaries  of  Mr.  Dolan.  They  were  as  light  as 
air.  But  in  John  Barclay's  life  a  vision  was  rising  —  a 
vision  that  was  real,  palpable,  and  vital;  a  vision  of  wealth 
and  power,  —  and  as  the  days  and  the  months  passed,  the 
shadow  of  that  vision  grew  big  and  black  and  real  in  a 
score  of  lives. 


CHAPTER  XV 

As  June  burned  itself  gloriously  into  July,  Robert 
Hendricks  no  longer  counted  the  weeks  until  Molly  Cul- 
pepper  should  be  married,  but  counted  the  days.  So  three 
weeks  and  two  days,  from  the  first  of  July,  became  three 
weeks,  then  two  weeks  and  six  days,  and  then  one  week 
and  six  days,  and  then  six  days,  five  days,  four  days,  three 
days;  and  then  it  became  seventy-two  hours.  And  the 
three  threshing  machines  of  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Com 
pany  were  pouring  their  ceaseless  stream  into  the  com 
pany's  great  bins.  The  railroad  was  only  five  miles  away, 
and  Hendricks  was  sitting  in  his  oifice  in  the  bank  going 
over  and  over  his  estimates  of  the  year's  crop  which  was 
still  lying  in  the  field,  —  save  the  crop  from  less  than  two 
thousand  acres  that  was  harvested  and  threshed.  From 
that  he  judged  that  there  would  be  enough  to  redeem  his 
share  of  the  farmers'  mortgages,  which  in  Hendricks'  mind 
could  be  nothing  but  rent  for  the  land,  and  to  pay  his 
share  of  the  bank's  fraudulent  loans  to  the  company  — 
and  leave  nothing  more. 

The  fact  that  John  expected  to  buy  back  the  mortgages 
from  Eastern  investors  who  had  bought  them,  and  then 
squeeze  the  farmers  out  of  their  land  by  the  option  to  buy 
hidden  in  the  contract,  did  not  move  Hendricks.  He  saw 
his  duty  in  the  matter,  but  as  the  golden  flood  rose  higher 
in  the  bins,  and  as  hour  after  hour  rolled  by  bringing  him 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  time  when  Molly  Culpepper 
should  marry  Adrian  Brownwell,  a  temptation  came  to 
him,  and  he  dallied  with  it  as  he  sat  figuring  at  his  desk. 
The  bank  was  a  husk.  Its  real  resources  had  been  sold, 
and  a  lot  of  bogus  notes  —  accommodation  paper,  they  called 
it  —  had  taken  the  place  of  real  assets.  For  Hendricks 
o  193 


194  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

to  borrow  money  of  any  other  institution  as  the  officer  of 
the  Exchange  National  Bank  of  Sycamore  Ridge  would 
be  a  crime.  And  yet  he  knew  that  ten  thousand  dollars 
would  save  her,  and  his  brain  was  wrought  with  a  mad 
ness.  And  so  he  sat  figuring  while  the  hours  slipped  by, 
trying  to  discount  his  future  income  from  the  wheat  to 
justify  himself  in  taking  the  money  from  the  bank's  vaults. 
His  figures  did  not  encourage  him.  They  showed  him 
that  to  be  honest  with  the  farmers  he  might  hope  for  no 
profit  from  that  year's  crop,  and  with  two  years  of  failure 
behind  him,  he  knew  that  to  discount  the  next  year's  crop 
would  be  nothing  less  than  stealing.  Then,  strong  and 
compelling,  came  the  temptation  to  let  the  farmers  fight  it 
out  with  the  Eastern  investors.  The  temptation  rocked  the 
foundations  of  his  soul.  He  knew  it  was  wrong ;  he  knew 
he  would  be  a  thief,  if  he  did  it,  no  matter  what  the  law 
might  say,  no  matter  what  the  courts  might  adjudge.  To 
Barclay  what  was  legal  was  right,  and  what  the  courts 
had  passed  upon  —  that  was  legal.  But  Hendricks  sat 
with  his  pencil  in  his  hand,  going  over  and  over  his 
figures,  trying  to  silence  his  conscience. 

It  was  a  hot  afternoon  that  he  sat  there,  and  idly 
through  his  mind  went  the  computation  that  he  had  but 
sixty-six  more  hours  of  hope,  and  as  he  looked  at  the 
clock  he  added,  "  and  thirty-eight  minutes  and  twenty- 
seven  seconds,"  when  Martin  Culpepper  came  ambling 
into  the  back  room  of  the  bank. 

"  Robert,"  began  the  colonel,  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor 
and  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets,  "  I've  just 
been  talking  to  John."  The  colonel  rubbed  his  neck 
absent-mindedly  and  went  on,  "  John's  a  Yankee,  Robert 
—  the  blue  stripe  on  his  belly  is  fast  blue,  sir;  it  won't 
fade,  change  colour,  or  crock,  in  point  of  fact,  not  a  damned 
bit,  sir,  not  till  the  devil  covers  it  with  a  griddle  stripe, 
sir,  I  may  say."  The  colonel  slouched  into  a  chair  and 
looked  into  Hendricks'  face  with  a  troubled  expression 
and  continued,  "  That  John  certainly  is  Yankee,  Robert, 
and  he's  too  many  for  me.  Yes,  sir,  certainly  he's  got  me 
up  in  the  air,  sir  —  up  in  the  air,  and  as  I  may  say  a  mile 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  195 

west,  on  that  wheat  deal."  Hendricks  leaned  forward 
unconsciously,  and  the  colonel  dropped  both  hands  to  his 
knees  and  leaned  toward  Hendricks.  "  Robert  Hendricks," 
asked  the  colonel,  as  he  bored  his  deep  black  eyes  into  the 
younger  man,  "  did  you  know  about  that  option  in  the 
wheat  land  mortgage  ?  Answer  me,  sir  !  " 

"Not  at  the  time,  Colonel,"  returned  Hendricks,  and 
began,  "  but  I  — " 

44  Well,  neither  did  I.  And  I  got  half  of  those  mort 
gages  myself.  Lige  and  I  did  it  all,  sir.  And  Lige 
knew  —  Lige,  he  says  it's  legal,  but  I  say  it's  just  common 
stealing."  Hendricks  moistened  his  lips  and  sat  with 
mute  face  gazing  at  the  colonel.  The  colonel  went  on, 
"  And  now  the  farmers  have  found  it  out,  and  the  devil's 
to  pay,  sir,  with  no  pitch  hot  !  " 

Hendricks  cleared  his  throat  and  began,  "  Well,  Colonel 
—  I  don't  know ;  of  course  I  —  " 

The  elder  man  rose  to  his  full  height  and  glared  at  the 
younger,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  Robert,  Robert,  fire  in  the  moun 
tain,  snakes  in  the  grass  —  you  do  know  —  you  do  know, 
sir.  You  know  that  to  hold  up  the  farmers  of  this  county 
in  the  midst  of  what  amounted  to  a  famine,  not  to  let 
them  borrow  a  dollar  in  the  county  except  on  a  gouging 
mortgage,  and  then  to  slip  into  that  mortgage  a  blind 
option  to  sell  for  ten  dollars  an  acre  land  that  is  worth' 
three  times  that,  is  stealing,  and  so  does  John  Barclay 
know  that,  and,  worst  of  all,  so  does  Martin  Culpepper 
know  that,  and  the  farmers  are  finding  it  out — my  neigh 
bours  and  comrades  that  I  helped  to  swindle,  sir  —  to  rob, 
I  may  say  —  they  know  what  it  is." 

The  colonel's  voice  was  rising,  and  he  stood  glaring  and 
puffing  before  the  young  man,  shaking  his  head  furiously. 
Young  Hendricks  was  engaged  in  swallowing  his  Adam's 
apple  and  blinking  unsteadily,  and  just  as  he  started  to 
reply,  the  colonel,  who  had  caught  his  temper  by  the  horn 
and  was  shaking  it  into  submission,  cried  :  "  Yes,  sir, 
Robert,  that's  what  I  said,  sir ;  those  were  my  very 
words  in  point  of  fact.  And,"  he  began  as  he  sat  down 
and  sighed,  "  what  galls  me  most  of  all,  Robert,  is  that 


196  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

John  laughs  at  me.     Here  you've  been  gagging  and  gulp- 

ing  and  sputtering,  boy,  to  keep  down  your  conscience, 

and  so  I  know  —  yes,  Robert,  I'm  dead  sure,  I  may  say, 

that   you're   all   right;    but  John  giggles  —  giggles,  sir, 

snickers  in  point  of  fact,  as  though  he  had  done  some- 

•  thing  smart  in  getting  me  to  go  out  among  my  old  soldier 

|  friends  and  rob  'em  of  their  homesteads.     He  doesn't  care 

jfor  my  good  name  any  more  than  for  his  own." 

Hendricks  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  desk  before 
him.  His  blue  eyes  looked  into  nothing,  and  his  mind's 
eye  saw  the  house  of  cards  he  had  been  dallying  with 
totter  and  fall.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  before  he  looked 
up  at  the  colonel,  and  said  rather  sadly :  "  Well,  Colonel, 
you're  right.  I  told  John  the  day  after  I  came  home  that 
I  wouldn't  stand  it."  He  drummed  with  his  fingers  for  a 
moment  before  continuing,  "  I  suppose  you  got  about 
half  of  those  contracts,  didn't  you  ?  " 

The  colonel  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  crumpled  paper 
and  handed  it  to  Hendricks,  "  Here  they  are,  sir  —  and 
every  one  from  a  soldier  or  a  soldier's  widow,  every  one  a 
homestead,  sir." 

Hendricks  walked  to  the  window,  and  stood  looking  out 
with  his  eyes  cast  down.  He  fumbled  his  Masonic  watch- 
charm  a  moment,  and  then  glancing  at  it,  caught  the  colo 
nel's  eye  and  smiled  as  he  said  :  "  I'm  on  the  square,  Colo 
nel,  in  this  matter.  I'll  protect  you."  He  went  to  the 
elder  man  and  put  his  hands  on  his  shoulder  as  he  said : 
"  You  go  to  your  comrades  and  tell  them  this,  Colonel, 
that  Between  now  and  snowfall  every  man  will  have  his 
land  clear.  But,"  he  added,  picking  up  the  list  of  the 
colonel's  contracts,  "don't  mention  me  in  the  matter." 
He  paused  and  continued,  "  It  might  hurt  the  bank. 
Just  tell  them  you'll  see  that  it's  taken  care  of." 

The  colonel  put  out  his  hand  as  he  rose.  When  their 
hands  met  he  was  saying:  "  Blood  tells,  Robert  Hendricks, 
blood  tells.  Wasn't  your  sainted  father  a  Democrat, 
boy,  a  Democrat  like  me,  sir,  —  a  Union  Democrat  in 
point  of  fact  ?  "  The  colonel  squeezed  the  younger  man's 
hand  as  he  cried :  "  A  Union  Democrat,  sir,  who  could  shoot 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  197 

at  his  party,  sir,  but  never  could  bring  himself  to  vote 
against  it  —  not  once,  sir  —  not  once.  And  Robert  Hen- 
dricks,  when  I  see  you  acting  as  you've  acted  just  now,  sir, 
this  very  minute  in  point  of  fact,  I  may  say,  sir,  that  you're 
almost  honest  enough  to  be  a  Democrat,  sir  —  like  your 
sainted  father."  The  colonel  held  the  young  man's  hand 
affectionately  for  a  time  and  then  dropped  it,  sighing, 
"  Ah,  sir — if  it  wasn't  for  your  damned  Yankee  free  schools 
and  your  damned  Yankee  surroundings,  what  a  Democrat 
you  would  have  made,  Robert  —  what  a  grand  Democrat!  " 
The  colonel  waved  his  silver  tobacco  box  proudly  and 
made  for  the  door  and  left  Hendricks  sitting  at  his  desk, 
drumming  on  the  board  with  one  hand,  and  resting  his 
head  in  the  other,  looking  longingly  into  the  abyss  from 
which  he  had  escaped;  for  the  lure  of  the  danger  still 
fluttered  his  soul. 

Strength  had  come  to  him  in  that  hour  to  resist  the 
temptation.  But  the  temptation  still  was  there.  For  he 
was  a  young  man,  giving  up  for  an  intangible  thing  called 
justice  the  dearest  thing  in  his  life.  He  had  opened  the 
door  of  his  life's  despair  and  had  walked  in,  as  much  like 
a  man  as  he  could,  but  he  kept  looking  back  with  a  heavy 
heart,  hungering  with  his  whole  body  and  most  of  his  soul 
for  all  that  he  had  renounced.  •  And  so,  staring  at  the 
light  of  other  days,  and  across  the  shadow  of  what  might 
have  been,  he  let  ten  long  minutes  tick  past  toward  the 
inevitable  hour,  and  then  he  rose  and  put  his  hand  to  the 
plough  for  the  long  furrow. 

They  are  all  off  the  stage  now,  as  Bob  Hendricks  is 
standing  in  the  front  door  of  the  bank  that  August  night 
with  his  watch  in  his  hand  reckoning  the  minutes — some 
four  thousand  three  hundred  of  them  —  until  Molly  Cul- 
pepper  will  pass  from  him  forever,  and  as  the  stage  is  al 
most  deserted,  we  may  peep  under  the  rear  curtain  for  a 
minute.  Observe  Sycamore  Ridge  in  the  eighties,  with 
Hendricks  its  moving  spirit,  controlling  its  politics,  domi 
nating  its  business, — for  John  Barclay's  business  has  moved 
to  the  City  and  Bob  Hendricks  has  become  the  material 
embodiment  of  the  town.  And  the  town  there  on  the 


198  i  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

canvas  is  a  busy  town  of  twenty  thousand  people.  Just 
back  of  that  scene  we  find  a  convention  spread  on  the  can 
vas,  a  political  convention  wherein  Robert  Hendricks  is 
struggling  for  good  government  and  clean  politics.  Ob 
serve  him  a  taciturn,  forceful  man,  with  his  hands  on  the 
machinery  of  his  party  in  the  state,  shaping  its  destinies, 
directing  its  politics,  seeking  no  office,  keeping  himself  in 
the  background,  desiring  only  to  serve,  and  not  to  adver 
tise  his  power.  So  more  and  more  power  comes  to  him, 
greater  and  wider  opportunities  to  serve  his  state.  His 
business  grows  and  multiplies,  and  he  becomes  a  strong 
man  among  men;  always  reserved,  always  cautious,  a  man 
whose  self -poise  makes  people  take  him  for  a  cynic,  though 
his  heart  is  full  of  hope  and  of  the  joy  of  life  to  the  very 
last.  Let  us  lift  up  one  more  rag  —  one  more  painted  rag 
in  the  scenery  of  his  life  —  and  see  him  a  reformer  of  na 
tional  fame ;  see  him  with  an  unflinching  hand  pull  the 
wires  that  control  a  great  national  policy  of  his  party,  and 
watch  in  that  scene  wherein  he  names  a  president  —  even 
against  the  power  and  the  money  and  the  organization  of 
rich  men,  brutally  rich  men  like  John  Barclay.  Hendricks' 
thin  hair  is  growing  gray  in  this  scene,  and  his  skin  is  no 
longer  fresh  and  white  ;  but  his  eyes  have  a  twinkle  in  them, 
and  the  ardour  of  his  soul  glows  in  a  glad  countenance. 
And  as  he  sits  alone  in  his  room  long  after  midnight  while 
the  bands  are  roaring  and  the  processions  cheering  and  the 
great  city  is  ablaze  with  excitement,  Robert  Hendricks, 
turning  fifty,  winds  his  watch  —  the  same  watch  that  he 
holds  in  his  hand  here  while  we  pause  to  peek  under  the 
canvas  behind  the  scenes — and  wonders  if  Molly  will 
be  glad  that  his  side  won.  He  has  not  seen  her  for  months, 
nor  talked  with  her  for  years,  and  yet  as  he  sits  there  wind 
ing  his  watch  after  his  great  strategic  victory  in  national 
politics,  he  hopes  fondly  that  perhaps  Molly  will  know 
that  he  played  a  clean  hand  and  won  a  fair  game. 

Now  let  us  crawl  out  from  under  this  rubbish  of  the 
coming  years,  back  into  Sycamore  Ridge.  And  while  the 
street  is  deserted,  let  us  turn  the  film  of  events  forward, 
letting  them  flit  by  unnoticed  past  the  wedding  of  Molly 


A   CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  199 

Culpepper  and  Adrian  Brownwell  until  we  come  to  the 
August  day  when  the  railroad  came  to  Sycamore  Ridge. 

Jacob  Dolan,  sheriff  in  and  for  Garrison  County  for  four 
years,  beginning  with  1873,  remembered  the  summer  of 
1875  to  his  dying  day,  as  the  year  when  he  tore  his  blue 
soldier  coat,  and  for  twenty -five  years,  after  the  fight  in 
which  the  coat  was  torn,  Dolan  never  put  it  on  for  a 
funeral  or  a  state  occasion,  that  he  did  not  smooth  out  the 
seam  that  Nellie  Logan  McHurdie  made  in  mending  the 
rent  place,  and  recall  the  exigencies  of  the  public  service 
which  made  it  necessary  to  tear  one's  clothes  to  keep  the 
peace. 

"  You  may  state  to  the  court  in  your  own  way,"  said 
the  judge  at  the  trial  of  the  sheriff  for  assault,  "  just  how 
the  difficulty  began." 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Dolan,  "  there  was  a  bit  of  a  cele 
bration  in  town,  on  August  30,  it  being  the  day  the  rail 
road  came  in,  and  in  honour  of  the  occasion  I  put  on  my 
regimentals,  and  along  about  —  say  eleven  o'clock  —  as  the 
crowd  began  to  thicken  up  around  the  bank  corner,  and  in 
front  of  the  hardware  store,  I  was  walking  along,  kind  of 
shoving  the  way  clear  for  the  ladies  to  pass,  when  some 
one  behind  me  says,  '  General  Hendricks  was  an  old  thief, 
and  his  son  is  no  better,'  and  I  turned  around  and  clapt 
my  eye  on  this  gentleman  here.  I'd  never  seen  him  before 
in  my  whole  life,  but  I  knew  by  the  bold  free  gay  way  he 
had  with  his  tongue  that  he  was  from  Minneola  and  bent 
on  trouble.  '  Keep  still,'  says  I,  calm  and  dignified  like, 
bent  on  preserving  the  peace,  as  was  my  duty.  *  I'll  not,' 
says  he.  '  You  will,'  says  I.  '  'Tis  a  free  country,'  says- 
he,  coming  toward  me  with  one  shoulder  wiggling.  '  But 
not  for  cowards  who  malign  the  dead,'  says  I.  '  Well, 
they  were  thieves,'  says  he,  shaking  his  fist  and  getting 
more  and  more  into  contempt  of  court  every  minute. 
'You're  a  liar,'  says  I,  maintaining  the  dignity  of  my 
office.  4  And  you're  a  thief  too,'  says  he.  'A  what?  '  says 
I.  '  A  thief,'  says  he.  4  Whack,'  says  I,  with  my  stick 
across  his  head,  upholding  the  dignity  of  the  court. 
*  Biff,'  says  he,  with  a  brick  that  was  handy,  more  and  more 


200  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

contemptuous.  '  You  dirty,  mangy  cur,'  says  I,  grabbing 
him  by  the  ears  and  pounding  his  head  against  the  wall  as 
I  spoke,  hoping  to  get  some  idea  of  the  dignity  of  the  court 
into  his  rebellious  head.  '  Whoop,'  says  he,  and,  as  he 
tore  my  coat, '  Yip  yip,'  says  I,  and  may  it  please  the  court 
it  was  shortly  thereafter  that  the  real  trouble  started, 
though  I  misremember  just  how  at  this  time."  And  as 
there  were  three  "  E  "  Company  men  on  the  jury,  they 
acquitted  Dolan  and  advised  the  court  to  assess  a  fine  on 
the  prosecuting  witness  for  contributory  negligence  in  re 
sisting  an  officer. 

But  the  coat  —  the  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  with 
the  straps  of  a  lieutenant  on  the  shoulders,  was  mended 
and  even  in  that  same  summer  did  active  service  many 
times.  For  that  was  a  busy  summer  for  Sycamore  Ridge, 
and  holidays  came  faster  than  the  months.  When  the 
supreme  court  decided  the  Minneola  suit  to  enjoin  the 
building  of  the  court-house,  in  favour  of  Sycamore  Ridge, 
there  was  another  holiday,  and  men  drew  John  Barclay 
around  in  the  new  hack  with  the  top  down,  and  there  were 
fireworks  in  the  evening.  For  it  was  John  Barclay's  law 
suit.  Lige  Bemis,  who  was  county  attorney,  did  not  try 
to  claim  credit  for  the  work,  and  when  the  last  acre  of  the 
great  wheat  crop  of  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company  was 
cut,  and  threshed,  there  was  a  big  celebration  and  the 
elevator  of  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat  Company  was  formally 
turned  over  to  the  company,  and  John  Barclay  was  the 
hero  of  another  happy  occasion.  For  the  elevator,  stand 
ing  on  a  switch  by  the  railroad  track,  was  his  "  proposition." 
And  every  one  in  town  knew  that  the  railroad  company 
had  made  a  rate  of  wheat  to  Barclay  and  his  associates,  so 
low  that  Minneola  could  not  compete,  even  if  she  hauled 
her  wheat  to  another  station  on  the  road,  so  Minneola 
teams  lined  up  at  Barclay's  elevator.  That  autumn  Min 
neola,  without  a  railroad,  without  a  chance  for  the  county- 
seat,  and  without  a  grain  market,  began  to  fag,  and  during 
the  last  of  September,  the  Mason  House  came  moving  out 
over  the  hill  road,  from  Minneola  to  Sycamore  Ridge,  sur 
rounded  by  a  great  crowd  of  enthusiastic  men  from  the 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  201 

Ridge.  Every  evening,  of  the  two  weeks  in  which  the 
house  was  moving,  people  drove  out  from  Sycamore  Ridge 
to  see  it,  and  Lycurgus  Mason,  sitting  on  the  back  step 
smoking,  —  he  could  not  get  into  the  habit  of  using  the 
front  steps  even  in  his  day  of  triumph,  —  was  a  person  of 
considerable  importance. 

Money  was  plentiful,  and  the  Exchange  National  Bank 
grew  with  the  country.  The  procession  of  covered  wag 
ons,  that  had  straggled  and  failed  the  year  before,  began 
to  close  ranks  in  the  spring;  and  in  place  of  "Buck" 
and  "Ball"  arid  "Star,"  and  "Bright"  and  "Tom"  and 
"  Jerry,"  who  used  to  groan  under  the  yoke,  horses  were 
hitched  to  the  wagons,  and  stock  followed  after  them,  and 
thus  Garrison  County  was  settled,  and  Sycamore  Ridge 
grew  from  three  to  five  thousand  people  in  three  years. 
In  the  spring  of  '75  the  Banner  began  to  publish  a  daily 
edition,  and  Editor  Brownwell  went  up  and  down  the 
railroad  on  his  pass,  attending  conventions  and  making 
himself  a  familiar  figure  in  the  state.  Times  were  so 
prosperous  that  the  people  lost  interest  in  the  crime  of  '73, 
and  General  Ward  had  to  stay  in  his  law-office,  but  he 
joined  the  teetotalers  and  helped  to  organize  the  Good 
Templars  and  the  state  temperance  society.  Colonel  Cul- 
pepper  in  his  prosperity  took  to  fancy  vests,  cut  extremely 
low,  and  the  Culpepper  women  became  the  nucleus  of 
organized  polite  society  in  the  Ridge. 

The  money  that  John  Barclay  made  in  that  first  wheat 
transaction  was  the  foundation  of  his  fortune.  For  that 
money  gave  him  two  important  things  needed  in  mak 
ing  money  —  confidence  in  himself,  and  prestige.  He 
was  twenty-five  years  old  then,  and  he  had  demonstrated 
to  his  community  thoroughly  that  he  had  courage,  that 
he  was  crafty,  and  that  he  went  to  his  end  and  got 
results,  without  stopping  for  overnice  scruples  of  honour. 
Sycamore  Ridge  and  Garrison  County,  excepting  a  few 
men  like  General  Ward,  who  were  known  as  cranks,  re 
garded  John  as  the  smartest  man  in  the  county  —  smarter 
even  than  Lige  Bemis.  And  the  whole  community,  in 
cluding  some  of  the  injured  farmers  themselves,  considered 


202  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Hendricks  a  sissy  for  his  scruples,  and  thought  Barclay  a 
shrewd  financier  for  claiming  all  that  he  could  get.  Bar 
clay  got  hold  of  eight  thousand  acres  of  wheat  land,  in 
adjacent  tracts,  and  went  ahead  with  his  business.  In 
August  he  ploughed  the  ground  for  another  crop.  Also  he 
persuaded  his  mother  to  let  him  build  a  new  home  on  the 
site  of  the  Barclay  home  by  the  Sycamore  tree  under  the 
ridge,  and  when  it  was  done  that  winter  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Barclay  moved  out  of  their  rooms  at  the  Thayer  House  and 
lived  with  John's  mother.  The  house  they  built  cost  ten 
thousand  dollars  when  it  was  finished,  and  it  may  still  be 
seen  as  part  of  the  great  rambling  structure  that  he  built  in 
the  nineties.  John  put  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  books 
into  the  new  house  —  sets  of  books,  which  strangely  enough 
he  forced  himself  to  wade  through  laboriously,  and  thus  he 
cultivated  a  habit  of  reading  that  always  remained  with 
him.  In  those  days  the  books  with  cracked  backs  in  his 
library  were  Emerson,  Browning,  and  Tennyson.  And 
after  a  hard  day's  work  he  would  come  home  to  his  poets 
and  his  piano.  He  thought  out  the  whole  plan  of  the 
Barclay  Economy  Car  Door  Strip  about  midnight,  sitting 
in  his  night  clothes  at  the  piano  after  reading  "Abt  Vog- 
ler,"  and  the  central  idea  for  the  address  on  the  "  Practi 
cal  Transcendentalist,"  which  he  delivered  at  the  opening 
of  the  state  university  the  next  year,  came  to  him  one 
winter  night  after  he  had  tried  to  compose  a  clanging 
march  as  an  air  to  fit  Emerson's  "  The  Sphinx."  After 
almost  a  quarter  of  a  century  that  address  became  the 
first  chapter  of  Barclay's  famous  book,  which  created  such 
ribaldry  in  the  newspapers,  entitled  "  The  Obligations  of 
Wealth." 

It  was  in  1879  that  Barclay  patented  his  Economy  Door 
Strip,  and  put  it  in  his  grain  cars.  It  saved  loss  of  grain 
in  shipping,  and  Barclay,  being  on  terms  of  business  inti 
macy  with  the  railroad  men,  sold  the  Economy  Strip  to 
the  railroads  to  use  on  every  car  of  grain  or  flour  he 
shipped.  And  Lycurgus  Mason,  taken  from  the  kitchen 
of  the  Mason  House,  hired  a  room  over  McHurdie's  har 
ness  shop,  and  made  the  strips  there.  His  first  day  in 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  203 

his  new  shop  is  impressed  upon  his  memory  by  an  incident 
that  is  the  seed  of  a  considerable  part  of  this  story. 

He  always  remembers  that  day,  because,  when  he  got  to 
the  Thayer  House,  he  found  John  there  in  the  buggy 
waiting  for  him,  and  a  crowd  of  men  sitting  around  smok 
ing  cigars.  In  the  seat  by  Barclay  was  a  cigar-box,  and 
Lycurgus  cut  in,  before  John  could  speak,  with,  "  Well, 
which  is  it  ?  " 

And  John  returned,  "  A  girl  —  get  in  ;  Mother  Mason 
needs  you." 

Lycurgus  fumbled  under  the  box  lid  for  a  cigar  as  he 
got  into  the  buggy,  and  repeated :  "  Mother  needs  me,  eh? 
Well,  now,  ain't  that  just  like  a  woman,  taking  a  man  from 
his  work  in  the  middle  of  the  day  ?  What  are  you  going 
to  name  her?  " 

"How  do  you  like  Jeanette?"  asked  Barclay,  as  he 
turned  the  horse.  "  You  know  we  can't  have  two  Janes/' 
he  explained. 

"  Well,"  asked  the  elder  man,  tentatively,  "  how  does 
mother  stand  on  Jeanette  ?  " 

"Mother  IVlason,"  answered  Barclay,  "is  against  it." 

"All  right,"  replied  Lycurgus,  "I  vote  aye.  What 
does  she  want  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Susan  B.,"  returned  Barclay. 

"Susan  B.  Anthony?"  queried  the  new  grandfather. 

"  Exactly,"  replied  the  new  father. 

The  two  rode  down  the  street  in  silence  ;  as  they  turned 
into  the  Barclay  driveway  Lycurgus  chuckled,  "Well — • 
well  —  Susan  B.  Wants  to  put  breeches  on  that  child 
before  she  gets  her  eyes  open."  Then  he  turned  on  Bar 
clay  with  a  broad  grin  of  fellowship,  as  he  pinched  the 
young  man's  leg  and  laughed,  "Say  —  John  —  honest, 
ain't  that  just  like  a  woman?" 

And  so  Jeanette  Thatcher  Barclay  came  into  this  world, 
and  what  with  her  Grandmother  Barclay  uncovering  her 
to  look  at  the  Thatcher  nose,  and  her  Grandmother  Mason 
taking  her  to  the  attic  so  that  she  could  go  upstairs  be 
fore  she  went  down,  that  shs  might  never  come  down  in 
the  world,  and  what  with  her  Grandfather  Mason  rubbing 


204  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

her  almost  raw  with  his  fuzzy  beard  before  the  women 
could  scream  at  him,  and  what  with  her  father  trying  to 
jostle  her  on  his  knee,  and  what  with  all  the  different 
things  Mrs.  Ward,  the  mother  of  six,  would  have  done  to 
her,  and  all  the  things  Mrs.  Culpepper,  mother  of  three, 
would  have  done  to  her,  and  Mrs.  McHurdie,  mother  of 
none,  prevented  the  others  from  doing,  Jeanette  had  rather 
an  exciting  birthday.  And  Jeanette  Barclay  as  a  young 
woman  often  looks  at  the  scrap-book  with  its  crinkly 
leaves  and  reads  this  item  from  the  Daily  Banner  :  "  The 
angels  visited  our  prosperous  city  again  last  Thursday, 
June  12,  and  left  a  little  one  named  Jeanette  at  the  home  of 
our  honoured  townsman,  John  Barclay.  Mother  and  child 
progressing  nicely."  But  under  this  item  is  a  long  poem 
clipped  from  a  paper  printed  a  week  later,  —  Jeanette  has 
counted  the  stanzas  many  times  and  knows  there  are  sev 
enteen,  and  each  one  ends  with  "  when  the  angels  brought 
Jeanette."  Her  father  used  to  read  the  verses  to  her  to 
tease  her  when  she  was  in  her  teens,  and  once  when  she 
was  in  her  twenties,  and  Jeanette  had  the  lonely  poet  out 
to  dinner  one  Sunday,  she  sat  with  him  on  the  sofa  in  the 
library,  looking  at  the  old  scrap-book.  Their  eyes  fell 
upon  the  verses  about  the  angels  bringing  Jeanette,  and 
the  girl  noticed  the  old  man  mumming  it  over  and  smiling. 

"Tell  me,  Uncle  Watts,"  she  asked,  "why  did  you 
make  such  a  long  poem  about  such  a  short  girl  ?  " 

The  poet  ran  his  fingers  through  his  rough  gray  beard, 
and  went  on  droning  off  the  lines,  and  grinning  as  he  read. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  took  her  pretty  hand  in  his  gnarly, 
bony  one  and  patted  the  white  firm  flesh  tenderly  as  he 
peered  back  through  the  years.  "  U-h-m,  that  was  years 
and  years  ago,  Jeanette  —  years  and  years  ago,  and  Nellie 
had  just  bought  me  my  rhyming  dictionary.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  a  chance  to  use  it."  The  lyrical  artist 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  mahogany  arm  of  the 
sofa.  "  My  goodness,  child  —  what  a  long  column  there 
was  of  words  rhyming  with  'ette. ' '  He  laughed  to  him 
self  as  he  mused  :  "  You  know,  my  dear,  I  had  to  let 4  brevet ' 
and  '  fret '  and  '  roulette '  go,  because  I  couldn't  think  of 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAM  205 

anything  to  say  about  them.  You  don't  know  how  that 
worries  a  poet."  He  looked  at  the  verses  in  the  book  be 
fore  him  and  then  shook  his  head  sadly:  "I  was  young 
then — it  seems  strange  to  think  I  could  write  that. 
Youth,  youth,''  he  sighed  as  he  patted  the  fresh  young 
hand  beside  him,  "it  is  not  by  chance  you  rhyme  with 
truth." 

His  eyes  glistened,  and  the  girl  put  her  cheek  against 
his  and  squeezed  the  thin,  trembling  hand  as  she  cried, 
"  Oh,  Uncle  Watts,  Uncle  Watts,  you're  a  dear  —  a  regu 
lar  dear!  " 

"  In  his  latter  days,"  writes  Colonel  Culpepper,  in  the 
second  edition  of  the  Biography,  "  those  subterranean 
fires  of  life  that  flowed  so  fervently  in  his  youth  and  man 
hood  smouldered,  and  he  did  not  write  often.  But  on  oc 
casion  the  flames  would  rise  and  burn  for  a  moment  with 
their  old-time  ardour.  The  poem  'After  Glow'  was 
penned  one  night  just  following  a  visit  with  a  young 
woman,  Jeanette,  only  daughter  of  Honourable  and  Mrs. 
John  Barclay,  whose  birth  is  celebrated  elsewhere  in  this 
volume  under  the  title  '  When  the  Angels  brought 
Jeanette.'  The  day  after  the  poem  'After  Glow'  was 
composed  I  was  sitting  in  the  harness  shop  with  the  poet 
when  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  compensations  of 
age.  I  said  :  '  Sir,  do  you  not  think  that  one  of  our  com 
pensations  is  that  found  in  the  freedom  and  the  rare  in 
timacy  with  which  we  are  treated  by  the  young  women? 
They  no  longer  seem  to  fear  us.  Is  it  not  sweet  ?  '  I 
asked.  Our  hero  turned  from  his  bench  with  a  smile  and 
a  deprecating  gesture  as  he  replied  softly,  '  Ah,  Colonel  — 
that's  just  it;  that's  just  the  trouble.'  And  then  he  took 
from  a  box  near  by  this  poem,  '  The  After  Glow,'  and  read 
it  to  me.  And  I  knew  the  meaning  of  the  line  — 

" '  Oh,  drowsy  blood  that  tosses  in  its  sleep.' 

"  And  so  we  fell  to  talking  of  other  days.  And  until  the 
twilight  came  we  sat  together,  dreaming  of  faded  moons." 


» 


CHAPTER   XVI 

COLONEL  MARTIN  CULPEPPER  was  standing  with  one 
foot  on  the  window  ledge  in  the  office  of  Philemon  R. 
Ward  one  bright  spring  morning  watching  the  procession 
of  humanity  file  into  the  post-office  and  out  into  the  street 
upon  the  regular  business  of  life.  Mrs.  Watts  McHurdie, 
a  bride  of  five  years  and  obviously  proud  of  it,  hurried  by, 
and  Mrs.  John  Barclay  drove  down  the  street  in  her 
phaeton;  Oscar  Fernald,  with  a  pencil  behind  his  ear, 
came  out  of  his  office  licking  an  envelope  and  loped  into 
the  post-office  and  out  like  a  dog  looking  for  his  bone ;  and 
then  a  lank  figure  sauntered  down  the  street,  stopping  here 
and  there  to  talk  with  a  passerby,  stepping  into  a  stairway 
to  light  a  cigar,  and  betimes  leaning  languidly  against 
an  awning  post  in  the  sun  and  overhauling  farmers  passing 
down  Main  Street  in  their  wagons. 

"  He's  certainly  a  gallus-looking  slink,"  ejaculated  the 
colonel. 

The  general,  writing  at  his  desk,  asked,  "  Who  ?  " 

"  Our  old  friend  and  comrade  in  arms,  Lige  Bemis." 
At  the  blank  look  on  the  general's  face  the  colonel  shook 
his  head  wearily.  "  Don't  know  what  a  gallus-looking 
slink  is,  do  you  ?  General,  the  more  I  live  with  you  damn 
Yankees  and  fight  for  your  flag  and  die  for  your  country, 
sir,  the  more  astonished  I  am  at  your  limited  and  provincial 
knowledge  of  the  United  States  language.  Here  you  are, 
a  Harvard  graduate,  with  the  Harvard  pickle  dripping  off 
your  ears,  confessing  such  ignorance  of  your  mother-tongue. 
General,  a  gallus-looking  slink  is  four  hoss  thieves,  three 
revenue  officers,  a  tin  pedler,  and  a  sheep-killing  dog,  all 
rolled  into  one  man.  And  as  I  before  remarked,  our  be 
loved  comrade,  Lige  Bemis,  is  certainly  a  gallus-looking 
slink." 

206 


A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  207 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,"  continued  the  colonel,  "  residing 
as  I  may  say  in  a  rather  open  and  somewhat  exposed  domi- 
|  cile  —  a  glass  house  in  fact  —  to  throw  stones  at  Elijah 
!  Westlake  Bemis,  —  far  be  it."    The  colonel  patted  himself 
1  heroically  on  the  stomach  and  laughed.    "  Doubtless,  while 
i  I  haven't  been  a  professional  horse  thief,  nor  a  cattle  rustler, 
J  still,  probably,  if  the  truth  was  known,  I've  done  a  number 
of  things  equally  distasteful  —  I  was  going  to  say  obnox 
ious —  in  the  sight  of  Mr.  Bemis,  so  we'll  let  that  pass." 
The  colonel  stretched  his  suspenders  out  and  let  them  flap 
against  the  plaits  of  his  immaculate  shirt.     "But  I  will 
say,  General,  that  as  I  see  it,  it  will  be  a  heap  handier  for 
me  to  explain  to  St.  Peter  at  the  gate  the  things  I've  done 
than  if  he'd  ask  me  about  Lige's  record." 

The  general  scratched  along,  without  answering,  and 
the  colonel  looked  meditatively  into  the  street ;  then  he 
began  to  smile,  and  the  smile  glowed  into  a  beam  that  be 
spread  his  countenance  and  sank  into  a  mood  that  set  his 
vest  to  shaking  "  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly."  "  I  was  just 
thinking,"  he  said  to  nobody  in  particular,  "  that  if  Lige 
was  jumped  out  of  his  grave  right  quick  by  Gabriel  and 
hauled  up  before  St.  Peter  and  asked  to  justify  my  record, 
he'd  have  some  trouble  too  —  considerable  difficulty,  I  may 
say.  I  reckon  it's  all  a  matter  of  having  to  live  with  your 
sins  till  you  get  a  good  excuse  thought  up." 

The  general  pushed  aside  his  work  impatiently  and  tilted 
back  in  his  chair.  "  Come,  Martin  Culpepper,  come,  come  I 
That  won't  do.  You  know  better  than  that.  What's  the 
use  of  your  pretending  to  be  as  bad  as  Lige  Bemis?  You 
know  better  and  I  know  better  and  the  whole  town  knows 
better.  He's  little,  and  he's  mean,  and  snooping,  and 
crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg.  Why,  he  was  in  here  yester 
day  —  actually  in  here  to  see  me.  Yes,  sir  —  what  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  Wants  to  be  state  senator." 
"  So  I  hear,"  smiled  the  colonel. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  general,  "  he  came  in  here  yes 
terday  as  pious  as  a  deacon,  and  he  said  that  his  friends 
were  insisting  on  his  running  because  his  enemies  were 
bringing  up  that '  old  trouble'  on  him.  He  calls  his  horse 


208  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

stealing  and  cattle  rustling  '  that  old  trouble.'  Honestly, 
Martin,  you'd  think  he  was  being  persecuted.  It  was  all 
I  could  do  to  keep  from  sympathizing  with  him.  He  said 
he  couldn't  afford  to  retreat  under  fire,  and  then  he  told 
me  how  he  had  been  trying  to  be  a  better  man,  and  win 
the  respect  of  the  people  —  and  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer,  and  I  rose  up  and  shook  my  fist  in  his  face  and 
said :  '  Lige  Bemis,  you  disreputable,  horse-stealing  cow 
thief,  what  right  have  you  to  ask  my  help  ?  What  right 
have  you  got  to  run  for  state  senator,  anyway  ? '  And, 
Martin,  the  brazen  whelp  reared  back  and  looked  me 
squarely  in  the  eye  and  answered  without  blinking,  '  Be 
cause,  Phil  Ward,  I  want  the  job.'  What  do  you  think  of 
that  for  brass  ?  " 

The  colonel  slapped  his  campaign  hat  on  his  leg  and 
laughed.  There  was  always,  even  to  the  last,  something 
feminine  in  Martin  Culpepper's  face  when  he  laughed  —  a 
kind  of  alternating  personality  of  the  other  sex  seemed  to 
tiptoe  up  to  his  consciousness  and  peek  out  of  his  kind  eyes. 
As  he  laughed  with  Ward  the  colonel  spoke :  "  Criminy, 
but  that's  like  him.  He's  over  there  talking  to  Gabe  Car- 
nine  on  the  corner  now.  I  know  what  he's  saying.  He 
has  only  one  speech,  and  he  gets  it  off  to  all  of  us.  He's 
got  his  cigar  chawed  down  to  a  rag,  stuck  in  one  corner  of 
his  mouth,  and  he's  saying, 4  Gabe  —  this  is  the  fight  of  my 
life.  This  is  the  last  time  I'm  going  to  ask  my  friends  for 
help. '  General,  I've  heard  that  now,  off  and  on,  first  and  last, 
from  old  Lige  at  every  city,  state,  county,  and  lodge  elec 
tion  since  the  war  closed,  and  I  can  see  how  Gabe  is  twist 
ing  and  wiggling  trying  to  get  away  from  it.  He's  heard 
it  too.  Now  Lige  is  saying :  4  Gabe,  I  ain't  going  to  lie 
to  you  ;  you  know  me,  and  you  know  I've  made  mistakes 
—  but  they  were  errors  of  judgment,  and  I  want  to  get 
a  chance  to  live 'em  down.  I  want  to  show  the  young 
men  of  this  state  that  Lige  Bemis  of  the  Red  Legs  is  a 
man  —  even  if  he  was  wild  as  a  young  fellow ;  it  '11  prove 
that  a  man  can  rise.'  Poor  old  Gabe  —  Lige  has  got  him 
by  the  coat  front,  now.  That's  the  third  degree.  When 
he  gets  him  by  the  neck  and  begins  to  whisper,  he's  giving 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  209 

him  the  work  in  the  uniform  rank.  He's  saying: '  Gabe, 
I've  got  to  have  you  with  me.  I  can't  win  without  you, 
and  I  would  rather  lose  than  win  with  you  against  me. 
You  stand  for  all  that's  upright  in  this  county,  and  if 
you'll  come  to  my  aid,  I  can  win.'  Here,  General  —  look 
—  Lige's  got  him  by  the  neck  and  the  hand.  Now  for 
the  password  right  from  the  grand  lodge,  *  Gabe,  you'd 
make  a  fine  state  treasurer  —  I  can  land  it  for  you. 
Make  me  state  senator,  and  with  my  state  acquaintance, 
added  to  the  prestige  of  this  office,  I  can  make  a  deal  that 
will  land  you.'  Oh,  I  know  his  whole  speech,"  laughed 
the  colonel.  "  Bob  Hendricks  is  to  be  secretary  of  state, 
John  Barclay  is  to  be  governor,  Oscar  Fernald  is  to  be  state 
auditor,  and  the  boys  say  that  Lycurgus  Mason  has  the  re 
fusal  of  warden  of  the  Penitentiary."  The  colonel  chuckled 
as  he  added  :  "  So  far  as  the  boys  have  been  able  to  learn, 
Lige  still  has  United  States  senator,  president,  and  five 
places  in  the  cabinet  to  go  on,  but  Minneola  township 
returns  ain't  all  in  yet,  and  they  may  change  the  result. 
By  the  way,  General,  what  did  you  get?" 

The  general  flushed  and  replied,  "  Well,  to  be  perfectly 
honest  with  you,  Mart  —  he  did  promise  me  to  vote  for 
the  dram-shop  law." 

And  in  the  convention  that  summer  Lige  Bemis  strode 
with  his  ragged  cigar  sticking  from  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  with  his  black  eyes  blazing,  and  his  shock  of  black 
hair  on  end,  begging,  bulldozing,  and  buying  delegates 
to  vote  for  him.  He  had  the  river  wards  behind  him 
to  a  man,  and  he  had  the  upland  townships  where  the 
farmers  needed  a  second  name  on  their  notes  at  the  bank ; 
and  in  the  gentleman's  ward — the  silk-stocking  ward  — 
he  had  Gabriel  Carnine,  chairman  of  the  first  ward  dele 
gation,  casting  the  solid  vote  of  that  ward  for  Bemis 
ballot  after  ballot.  And  when  Bemis  got  Minneola  town 
ship  for  fifty  dollars,  —  and  everybody  in  ^he  convention 
knew  it, — he  was  declared  the  nominee  of  the  party  with  a 
whoop. 

But  behind  Bemis  was  the  sinister  figure  of  young  John 
Barclay  working  for  his  Elevator  Company.  He  needed 


210  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Bemis  in  politics,  and  Bemis  needed  Barclay  in  business. 
And  there  the  alliance  between  Barclay  and  Bemis  was 
cemented,  to  last  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Barclay  and 
Bemis  went  into  the  campaign  together  and  asked  the 
people  to  rally  to  the  support  of  the  party  that  had  put 
down  the  rebellion,  that  had  freed  four  million  slaves,  and 
had  put  the  names  of  Lincoln  and  of  Grant  and  Garfield 
as  stars  in  the  world's  firmament  of  heroes.  And  the  peo 
ple  of  Garrison  County  responded,  and  State  Senator 
Elijah  Westlake  Bemis  did  for  Barclay  in  the  legislature 
the  things  that  Barclay  would  have  preferred  not  to  do  for 
himself,  and  the  Golden  Belt  Elevator  Company  throve  and 
waxed  fat.  And  Lige  Bemis,  its  attorney,  put  himself  in 
the  way  of  becoming  a  "  general  counsel,"  with  his  name 
on  an  opaque  glass  door.  For  as  Barclay  rose  in  the 
world,  he  found  the  need  of  Bemis  more  and  more  pressing 
every  year.  In  politics  the  favours  a  man  does  for  others 
are  his  capital,  and  Barclay's  deposit  grew  large.  He  was 
forever  helping  some  one.  His  standing  with  the  powers 
in  the  state  was  good.  He  was  a  local  railroad  attorney, 
and  knew  the  men  who  had  passes  to  give,  and  who  were 
responsible  for  the  direction  which  legislation  took  during 
the  session.  Barclay  saw  that  they  put  Bemis  on  the  ju 
diciary  committee,  and  by  manipulating  the  judiciary  com 
mittee  he  controlled  a  dozen  votes  through  Bemis.  He 
changed  a  railroad  assessment  law,  secured  the  passage 
>f  a  law  permitting  his  Elevator  Company  to  cheat  the 
armers  by  falsely  grading  their  wheat,  and  prevented  the 
passage  of  half  a  dozen  laws  restricting  the  powers  of  rail- 
oads.  So  at  the  close  of  the  legislative  session  his  name 
/ppeared  under  a  wood-cut  picture  in  the  Commonwealth 
newspaper,  and  in  the  article  thereunto  appended  Barclay 
was  referred  to  as  one  of  the  "  money  kings  of  our  young 
state."  That  summer  he  turned  his  wheat  into  his  eleva- 
or  early  and  at  a  low  price,  and  borrowed  money  on  it, 
and  bought  five  new  elevators  and  strained  his  credit  to 
the  limit,  and  before  the  fall  closed  he  had  ten  more,  and 
controlled  the  wheat  in  twenty  counties.  Strangers  riding 
through  the  state  on  the  Corn  Belt  Railroad  saw  the 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  211 

words,  "  The  Golden  Belt  Elevator  Company  "  on  eleva 
tors  all  along  the  line.  But  few  people  knew  then  that 
the  "  Company  "  had  become  a  partnership  between  John 
Barclay  of  Sycamore  Ridge  and  less  than  half  a  dozen 
railroad  men,  with  Barclay  owning  seventy-five  per  cent 
of  the  partnership  and  with  State  Senator  Bemis  the  attor 
ney  for  the  company. 

That  year  the  railroad  officials  who  were  making  money 
out  of  the  Golden  Belt  Elevator  Company  were  obliging,, 
and  Barclay  made  a  contract  with  them  to  ship  all  grair 
from  the  Golden  Belt  Company's  elevators  in  cars  equipped 
with  the  Barclay  Economy  Rubber  Strip,  and  he  solW 
these  strips  to  the  railroads  for  four  dollars  apiece  and  put 
them  on  at  the  elevators.  He  shipped  ten  thousand  cars 
that  year,  and  Lycurgus  Mason  hired  two  men  to  help  him 
in  the  strip  factory.  And  John  Barclay,  in  addition  to  the 
regular  rebate,  made  forty  thousand  dollars  that  he  did 
not  have  to  divide.  The  next  year  he  leased  three  large 
mills  and  took  over  a  score  of  elevators  and  paid  Lycurgus 
twenty  dollars  a  week,  and  Lycurgus  deposited  money  in 
the  bank  in  his  own  name  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

As  the  century  clanged  noisily  into  its  busy  eighties, 
Adrian  P.  Brown  well  creaked  stiffly  into  his  forties. 
And  while  all  the  world  about  him  was  growing  rich,  —  or 
thought  it  was,  which  is  the  same  thing,  —  Brownwell 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  keep  barely  even  with  the 
score  of  life.  The  Banner  of  course  ran  as  a  daily,  but  it 
was  a  miserable,  half-starved  little  sheet,  badly  printed, 
and  edited,  as  the  printers  used  to  say,  with  a  pitchfork. 
It  looked  shiftless  and  dirty-faced  long  before  Brownwell 
began  to  look  seedy.  Editor  Brownwell  was  forever 
going  on  excursions — editorial  excursions,  land-buyers' 
excursions,  corn  trains,  fruit  trains,  trade  trains,  political 
junkets,  tours  of  inspection  of  new  towns  and  new  fields, 
and  for  consideration  he  was  forever  writing  grandiloquent 
accounts  of  his  adventures  home  to  the  Banner.  But  from 
the  very  first  he  ostentatiously  left  Molly,  his  wife,  at 
home.  "  The  place  for  a  woman,"  said  Brownwell  to  the 
assembled  company  on  the  Barclay  veranda  one  evening, 


212  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

when  Jane  had  asked  him  why  he  did  not  take  Molly  to 
the  opening  of  the  new  hotel  at  Garden  City,  "  the  place 
for  woman  is  in  the  sacred  precincts  of  home,  4  far  from 
the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  throng.'  The  madame  and 
I,"  with  a  flourish  of  his  cane,  "  came  to  that  agreement 
early,  eh,  my  dear,  eh  ? "  he  asked,  poking  her  master 
fully  with  his  cane.  And  Molly  Brownwell,  wistful-eyed 
and  fading,  smiled  and  assented,  and  the  incident  passed 
as  dozens  of  other  incidents  passed  in  the  Ridge,  which 
made  the  women  wish  they  had  Adrian  Brownwell,  to 
handle  for  just  one  day.  But  the  angels  in  that  department 
of  heaven  where  the  marriages  are  made  are  exceedingly 
careful  not  to  give  to  that  particular  kind  of  women  the 
Adrian  Brownwell  kind  of  men,  so  the  experiment  which 
every  one  on  earth  for  thousands  of  years  has  longed  to  wit 
ness,  still  remains  a  theory,  and  Adrian  Brownwell  traipsed 
up  and  down  the  earth,  in  his  lavender  gloves,  his  long  coat 
and  mouse-coloured  trousers,  his  high  hat,  with  his  twirling 
cane,  and  the  everlasting  red  carnation  in  his  buttonhole. 
His  absence  made  it  necessary  for  Molly  Brownwell  to 
leave  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  home  many  and  many 
a  Saturday  afternoon,  to  go  over  the  books  at  the  Banner 
office,  make  out  bills,  take  them  out,  and  collect  the  money 
due  upon  them  and  pay  off  the  printers  who  got  out  the 
paper.  But  Adrian  Brownwell  ostentatiously  ignored 
such  services  and  kept  up  the  fiction  about  the  sacred 
precincts,  and  often  wrote  scorching  editorials  about  the 
"  encroachment  of  women  "  and  grew  indignant  editorially 
at  the  growth  of  sentiment  for  woman's  suffrage.  On  one 
occasion  he  left  on  the  copy-hook  a  fervid  appeal  for 
women  to  repulse  the  commercialism  which  "  was  sullying 
the  fair  rose  of  womanhood,"  and  taking  "from  woman 
the  rare  perfume  of  her  chiefest  charm,"  and  then  he 
went  away  on  a  ten  days'  journey,  and  the  foreman  of  the 
Banner  had  to  ask  Mrs.  Brownwell  to  collect  enough 
money  from  the  sheriff  and  a  delinquent  livery-stable 
keeper  to  pay  ths  freight  charges  on  the  paper  stock 
needed  for  that  week's  issue  of  the  paper. 

The  town  came  to  know   these   things,  and   so  when 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  213 

Brown  well,  who,  since  his  marriage,  had  taken  up  his  abode 
at  the  Culpeppers',  hinted  at  his  "  extravagant  family,"  the 
town  refused  to  take  him  seriously.  And  the  strutting, 
pompous  little  man,  who  referred  grandly  to  "  my  wife," 
and  then  to  "  the  madame,"  and  finally  to  "  my  landlady," 
in  a  rather  elaborate  attempt  at  jocularity,  laughed  alone 
at  his  merriment  along  this  line,  and  never  knew  that  no 
one  cared  for  his  humour. 

So  in  his  early  forties  Editor  Brown  well  dried  up  and 
grew  yellow  and  began  to  dye  his  mustaches  and  his  eye 
brows,  and  to  devote  much  time  to  considering  his  own 
importance.  "  Throw  it  out,"  said  Brownwell  to  the 
foreman,  "  not  a  line  of  it  shall  go  !  "  He  had  just  come 
home  from  a  trip  and  had  happened  to  glance  over  the 
proof  of  the  article  describing  the  laying  of  the  corner 
stone  of  Ward  University. 

"  But  that's  the  only  thing  that  happened  in  town  this 
week,  and  Mrs.  Brownwell  wrote  it  herself." 

"Cut  it  out,  I  say,"  insisted  Brownwell,  and  then 
threw  back  his  shoulders  and  marched  to  his  desk,  snap 
ping  his  eyes,  and  demonstrating  to  the  printers  that  he 
was  a  man  of  consequence.  "  I'll  teach  'em,"  he  roared. 
"I'll  teach  'em  to  make  up  their  committees  and  leave 
me  out." 

He  raged  about  the  office,  and  finally  wrote  the  name 
of  Philemon  R.  Ward  in  large  letters  on  the  office  black 
list  hanging  above  his  desk.  This  list  contained  the 
names  which  under  no  circumstances  were  to  appear  in 
the  paper.  But  it  was  a  flexible  list.  The  next  day 
John  Barclay,  who  desired  to  have  his  speech  on  the  lay 
ing  of  the  corner-stone  printed  in  full,  gave  Brownwell 
twenty  dollars,  and  a  most  glowing  account  of  the  event 
in  question  appeared  in  the  Banner,  and  eloquence  stag 
gered  under  the  burden  of  praise  which  Brownwell's  lan 
guage  loaded  upon  the  shoulders  of  General  Ward. 

It  is  now  nearly  a  generation  since  that  corner-stone 
was  laid.  Boys  and  girls  who  then  were  children  have 
children  in  the  university,  and  its  alumni  include  a  briga 
dier  in  the  army,  a  poet,  a  preacher  of  national  renown, 


214  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

two  college  presidents,  an  authority  upon  the  dynamics 
of  living  matter,  and  two  men  who  died  in  the  Ameri 
can  mission  at  Foo  Chow  during  the  uprising  in  1900. 
When  General  Ward  was  running  for  President  of  the 
United  States  on  one  of  the  various  seceding  branches  of 
the  prohibition  party,  while  Jeanette  Barclay  was  a  little 
girl,  he  found  the  money  for  it;  two  maiden  great-aunts 
on  his  mother's  side  of  the  family  had  half  a  million  dol 
lars  to  leave  to  something,  and  the  general  got  it.  They 
willed  it  to  him  to  hold  in  trust  during  his  lifetime,  but 
the  day  after  the  check  came  for  it,  he  had  transferred 
the  money  to  a  university  fund,  and  had  borrowed  fifty 
dollars  of  Bob  Hendricks  to  clean  up  his  grocery  bills 
and  tide  him  over  until  his  pension  came.  But  he  was  a 
practical  old  fox.  He  announced  that  he  would  give  the 
money  to  a  college  only  if  the  town  would  give  a  similar 
sum,  and  what  with  John  Barclay's  hundred-thousand-dol 
lar  donation,  and  Bob  Hendricks'  ten  thousand,  and  what 
with  the  subscription  paper  carried  around  by  Colonel 
Culpepper,  who  proudly  headed  it  with  five  thousand  dol 
lars,  and  after  the  figure  wrote  in  red  ink  "  in  real  estate," 
much  to  the  town's  merriment,  and  what  with  public  meet 
ings  and  exhortations  in  the  churches,  and  what  with  vot 
ing  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  bonds  by  Garrison 
County  for  the  privilege  of  sending  students  to  the  college 
without  tuition,  the  amount  was  raised;  and  as  the  proces 
sion  wheeled  out  of  Main  Street  to  attend  the  ceremonies 
incident  to  laying  the  corner-stone  that  beautiful  October 
day,  it  is  doubtful  which  was  the  prouder  man  —  Martin 
Culpepper,  the  master  of  ceremonies,  in  his  plumed  hat, 
flashing  sword,  and  red  sash,  or  General  Philemon 
Ward,  who  for  the  first  time  in  a  dozen  years  heard  the 
crowd  cheer  his  name  when  the  governor  in  his  speech 
pointed  at  the  general's  picture  —  his  campaign  picture 
that  had  been  hooted  with  derision  and  spattered  with 
filth  on  so  many  different  occasions  in  the  town.  The 
governor's  remarks  were  of  course  perfunctory;  he  de 
voted  five  or  ten  minutes  to  the  praise  of  General  Ward, 
of  Sycamore  Ridge,  of  John  Barclay,  and  of  education  in 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  215 

general,  and  then  made  his  regular  speech  that  he  used 
for  college  commencements,  for  addresses  of  welcome  to 
church  conferences,  synods,  and  assemblies,  and  for  con 
claves  of  the  grand  lodge.  General  Ward  spoke  poorly, 
which  was  to  his  credit,  considering  the  occasion,  and 
Watts  McHurdie's  poem  got  entangled  with  Juno  and 
Hermes  and  Minerva  and  a  number  of  scandalous  heathen 
gods,  —  who  were  no  friends  of  Watts,  —  and  the 
crowd  tired  before  he  finished  the  second  canto.  But 
many  discriminating  persons  think  that  John  Barclay's 
address,  "  The  Time  of  True  Romance,"  was  the  best 
thing  he  ever  wrote.  It  may  be  found  in  his  book  as 
Chapter  XI.  "The  Goths,"  he  said,  "came  out  of  the 
woods,  pulled  the  beards  of  the  senators,  destroyed  the 
Roman  state,  murdered  and  pillaged  the  Roman  people, 
and  left  the  world  the  Gothic  arch;  the  Vikings  came 
fcyer  the  sea,  roaring  their  sagas  of  rapine  and  slaughter  ; 
the  conquerors  came  to  Europe  with  spear  and  sword  and 
torch  and  left  the  outlines  of  the  map,  the  boundaries  of 
states.  Luther  married  his  nun,  and  set  Christendom  to 
fighting  over  it  for  a  hundred  years,  but  he  left  a  free 
conscience.  Cromwell  thrust  his  pikes  into  the  noble 
heads  of  England,  snapped  his  fingers  at  law,  and  left 
civil  liberty.  Organized  murder  reached  its  sublimity 
in  the  war  that  Lincoln  waged,  and  in  that  murdering 
and  pillage  true  romance  came  to  mankind  in  its  flower. 
Murder  for  the  moment  in  these  piping  times  has  become 
impolite.  But  true  romance  is  here.  Our  heroes  rob 
and  plunder,  and  build  cities,  and  swing  gayly  around 
the  curves  of  the  railroads  they  have  stolen,  and  swagger 
through  the  cities  they  have  levied  upon  the  people  to 
build.  Do  we  care  to-day  whether  Charlemagne  murdered 
his  enemies  with  a  sword  or  an  axe  ;  do  we  ask  if  King 
Arthur  used  painless  assassination  or  burned  his  foes  at 
the  stake  ?  Who  cares  to  know  that  Caesar  was  a  rake, 
and  that  William  the  Conqueror  was  a  robber  ?  They 
did  their  work  and  did  it  well,  and  are  snugly  sitting  on 
their  monuments  where  no  moralist  can  reach  them.  So 
those  searching  for  true  romance  to-day,  who  regard  the 


216  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

decalogue  as  mere  persiflage,  and  the  moral  code  as  a 
thing  of  archaic  interest,  will  get  their  day's  work  done 
and  strut  into  posterity  in  bronze  and  marble.  They  will 
cheat  and  rob  and  oppress  and  grind  the  faces  off  the 
poor,  and  do  their  work  and  follow  their  visions,  and  live 
the  romance  in  their  hearts.  To-morrow  we  will  take  their 
work,  disinfect  it,  and  dedicate  it  to  God's  uses." 

There  was  more  of  it — four  thousand  words  more,  to  be 
exact,  and  when  General  Ward  went  home  that  night  he 
prayed  his  Unitarian  God  to  forgive  John  Barclay  for  his 
blasphemy.  And  for  years  the  general  shuddered  when 
his  memory  brought  back  the  picture  of  the  little  man, 
with  his  hard  tanned  face,  his  glaring  green  eyes,  his 
brazen  voice  trumpeting  the  doctrine  of  materialism  to  the 
people. 

"  John,"  said  the  general,  the  next  day,  as  he  sat  in  the 
mill,  going  over  the  plans  of  the  college  buildings  with 
Barclay,  who  was  chairman  of  the  board  of  directors, 
"  John,  why  are  you  so  crass,  so  gross  a  materialist  ?  You 
have  enough  money  —  why  don't  you  stop  getting  it  and 
do  something  with  it  worth  while?  " 

"  Because,  General,  I'm  not  making  money  —  that's  only 
an  incident  of  my  day's  work.  I'm  organizing  the  grain 
industry  of  this  country  as  it  is  organized  in  no  other 
country  on  this  planet."  Barclay  rose  as  he  spoke  and 
began  limping  the  length  of  the  room.  It  was  his  habit 
to  walk  when  he  talked,  and  he  knew  the  general  had 
come  to  catechize  him. 

"  Yes,  but  then,  John  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  What  then  ?  "  repeated  Barclay,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  his  eyes  on  the  floor.  "  Coffee,  maybe  — 
perhaps  sugar,  or  tobacco.  Or  why  not  the  whole  food 
supply  of  the  people  —  let  me  have  meat  and  sugar  where 
I  will  have  flour  and  grain,  and  in  ten  years  no  man  in 
America  can  open  his  grocery  store  in  the  morning  until 
he  has  asked  John  Barclay  for  the  key."  He  snapped  his 
eyes  good-naturedly  at  the  general,  challenging  the  man's 
approval. 

The  general  smiled  and  replied :  "No,  John,  you'll  get 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  217 

the  social  bug  and  go  around  in  knee-breeches,  riding  a 
horse  after  a  scared  fox,  or  keeping  a  lot  of  hussies  on  a 
yacht.  They  all  get  that  way  sooner  or  later." 

Barclay  leaned  over  Ward,  stuck  out  his  hard  jaw  and 
growled :  "  Well,  I  won't.  I'm  going  to  be  a  tourist- 
sleeper  millionnaire.  I  stick  to  Sycamore  Ridge  ;  Jeanette 
goes  to  the  public  schools ;  Jane  buys  her  clothes  at  Bob 
Hendricks'  or  Dorman's,  or  at  the  most  of  Marshall  Field 
in  Chicago ;  I  go  fishing  down  at  Minneola  when  I  want 
rest."  Ward  started  to  protest,  but  Barclay  headed  him 
off.  "  I  made  a  million  last  year.  What  did  I  do  with 
it?  See  any  yachts  on  the  Sycamore  ?  Observe  any 
understudies  for  Jane  around  the  place  ?  Have  you  heard 
of  any  villas  for  the  Barclays  in  Newport  ?  No  —  no,  you 
haven't,  but  you  may  like  to  know  that  I  have  control  of 
a  railroad  that  handles  more  wheat  than  any  other  hundred 
miles  in  the  world,  and  it  is  the  key  to  the  lake  situa 
tion.  And  I've  put  the  price  of  my  Economy  Door 
Strip  up  to  ten  dollars,  and  they  don't  dare  refuse  it. 
What's  more,  I'm  going  to  hire  a  high-priced  New  York 
sculptor  to  make  a  monument  for  old  Henry  Schnitzler^ 
who  fell  at  Wilson's  Creek,  and  put  it  in  the  cemetery. 
But  I  am  giving  none  of  my  hard-earned  cash  to  cooks 
and  florists  and  chorus  ladies.  So  if  I  want  to  steal  a  mill 
or  so  every  season,  and  gut  a  railroad,  I'm  going  to  do  it, 
but  no  one  can  rise  up  and  say  I  am  squandering  my  sub 
stance  on  riotous  living." 

Barclay  shook  his  head  as  he  spoke  and  gesticulated  with 
his  hands,  and  the  general,  seeing  that  he  could  not  get 
the  younger  man  to  talk  of  serious  things,  brought  out  the 
plans  for  the  college  buildings,  and  the  men  fell  to  the  work 
in  hand  with  a  will. 

Barclay's  spirit  was  the  spirit  of  his  times  —  growing 
out  of  a  condition  which,  as  Barclay  said  in  his  speech,  was 
like  Emersonian  optimism  set  to  Wagnerian  music.  In 
Sycamore  Ridge  factories  rose  in  the  bottoms  near  the 
creek,  and  shop  hands  appeared  on  the  streets  at  night ; 
new  people  invaded  Lincoln  Avenue,  and  the  Culpeppers, 
to  maintain  their  social  supremacy,  had  to  hire  a  coloured 


218  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

man  to  open  the  door  for  an  afternoon  party,  and  for  an 
evening  reception  it  took  two,  one  for  the  door  and  one  to 
stand  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

Those  were  the  palmy  days  of  the  colonel's  life. 
Money  came  easily,  and  went  easily.  The  Culpepper 
Mortgage  Company  employed  fifty  men,  who  handled 
money  all  over  the  West,  and  one  of  the  coloured  men  who 
opened  the  door  at  the  annual  social  affair  at  the  Culpepper 
home  also  took  care  of  the  horses,  and  drove  the  colonel 
down  to  his  office  in  the  Barclay  block  every  morning,  and 
drove  him  home  in  the  evening. 

"Well,"  said  Watts  McHurdie  to  Gabriel  Carnine  as 
the  two  walked  down  the  hill  into  the  business  section  of 
the  town,  a  few  days  after  the  corner-stone  of  Ward  Col 
lege  was  laid,  "  old  Phil  has  got  his  college  started  and 
Mart's  got  his  church  a-going." 

"  You  mean  the  East  End  Mission  ?  Yes,  and  I  don't 
know  which  of  'em  is  happier  over  his  work,"  replied 
Carnine. 

"  Well,  Mart  certainly  is  proud ;  he's  been  too  busy 
to  loaf  in  the  shop  for  six  months,"  said  McHurdie. 

Carnine  smiled,  and  stroked  his  chestnut  beard  reflec 
tively  before  he  added :  "  Probably  that's  why  he  hasn't 
been  in  to  renew  his  last  two  notes.  But  I  guess  he  does 
a  lot  of  good  to  the  poor  people  over  there  along  the  river. 
Though  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  encouraging  them  to 
be  paupers."  Carnine  paused  a  moment  and  then  added, 
"  Good  old  Mart  — he's  got  a  heart  just  like  a  woman's." 

They  were  passing  the  court-house  square,  and  Bailiff 
Jacob  Dolan,  with  a  fist  full  of  legal  papers,  caught  step 
with  Carnine  and  McHurdie.  "  We  were  talking  about 
Mart  Culpepper  and  his  Mission  Church,"  said  Carnine. 
"  Don't  you  suppose,  Jake,  that  Mart,  by  circulating  down 
there  with  his  basket  so  much,  encourages  the  people  to  be 
shiftless  ?  We  were  just  wondering." 

"  Oh,  you  were,  were  you  ?  "  snapped  Dolan.  "  There 
you  go,  Gabe  Carnine;  since  you've  moved  to  town  and 
got  to  be  president  of  a  bank,  you're  mighty  damn  scared 
about  making  paupers.  When  Christ  told  the  young 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  219 

man  to  sell  his  goods  and  give  them  to  the  poor,  He 
didn't  tell  him  to  be  careful  about  making  them  paupers. 
And  Mr.  Gabriel  Carnine,  Esquire,  having  the  aroma  of 
one  large  morning's  drink  on  my  breath  emboldens  me  to 
say,  that  if  you  rich  men  will  do  your  part  in  giving,  the 
Lord  will  manage  to  keep  His  side  of  the  traces  from 
scraping  on  the  wheel.  And  if  I  had  one  more  good  nip, 
I'd  say,  which  Heaven  forbid,  that  you  fellows  are  ask 
ing  more  of  the  Lord  by  expecting  Him  to  save  your 
shrivelled  selfish  little  souls  from  hell-fire  because  of  your 
squeeze-penny  charities,  than  you  would  be  asking  by  ex 
pecting  Him  to  keep  the  poor  from  becoming  paupers  by 
the  dribs  you  give  them.  And  if  Mart  Culpepper  can 
give  his  time  and  his  money  every  day  helping  them  poor 
devils  down  by  the  track,  niggers  and  whites,  good  and  bad, 
male  and  female,  I  guess  the  Lord  will  put  in  lick  for  lick 
with  Mart  and  see  that  his  helping  doesn't  hurt  them." 
Dolan  shook  his  head  at  the  banker,  and  then  smiled  at 
him  good-naturedly  as  he  finished,  "  Put  that  in  your 
knapsack,  you  son  of  a  gun,  and  chew  on  it  till  I  see  you 
again."  Whereupon  he  turned  a  corner  and  went  his 
way. 

Carnine  laughed  rather  unnaturally  and  said  to  Mc- 
Hurdie,  "That's  why  he's  never  got  on  like  the  other 
boys.  Whiskey's  a  bad  partner." 

McHurdie  agreed,  and  went  chuckling  to  his  work, 
when  Carnine  turned  into  the  bank.  Later  in  the  fore 
noon  Bailiff  Dolan  came  in  grinning,  and  took  a  seat  by 
the  stove  in  McHurdie's  shop  and  said  as  he  reached  into 
the  waste-basket  for  a  scrap  of  harness  leather,  and  began 
whittling  it,  "  What  did  Gabe  say  when  I  left  you  this 
morning  ? "  and  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  went  on, 
"  I've  thought  for  some  time  Gabe  needed  a  little  some 
thing  for  what  ails  him,  and  I  gave  it  to  him,  out  of  the 
goodness  of  my  heart." 

McHurdie  looked  at  Dolan  over  his  glasses  and  replied, 
"  Speech  is  silver,  but  silence  is  golden." 

"  The  same,"  answered  Dolan,  "  the  same  it  is,  and  by 
the  same  authority  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver  is  a 


220  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

word  fitly  spoken  to  a  man  like  Gabe  Carnine."  He 
whittled  for  a  few  minutes  while  the  harness  maker 
worked,  and  then  sticking  his  pocket-knife  into  the  chair 
between  his  legs,  said:  "But  what  I  came  in  to  tell  you 
was  about  Lige  Bemis;  did  you  know  he's  in  town  ? 
Well,  he  is.  Johnnie  Barclay  wired  him  to  leave  the 
dump  up  in  the  City  and  come  down  here,  and  what  for,  do 
you  think  ?  'Tis  this.  The  council  was  going  to  change 
the  name  of  Ellen  Avenue  out  by  the  college  to  Garfield, 
and  because  it  was  named  for  that  little  girl  of  Mart's 
that  died  right  after  the  war,  don't  you  think  Johnnie's 
out  raising  hell  about  it,  and  brought  Lige  down  here  to 
beat  the  game.  He'll  be  spending  a  lot  of  money  if  he 
has  to.  Now  you  wouldn't  think  he'd  do  that  for  old 
Mart,  would  you?  He's  too  many  for  me  —  that  Johnny 
boy  is.  I  can't  make  him  out."  The  Irishman  played 
with  his  knife,  sticking  it  in  the  chair  and  pulling  it  out 
for  a  while,  and  then  continued :  "  Oh,  yes,  what  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  was  the  little  spat  me  and  Lige  had  over 
Johnnie.  Lige  was  in  my  room  in  the  court-house  wait 
ing  to  see  a  man  in  the  court,  and  was  bragging  to  me 
about  how  smart  John  was,  and  says  Lige,  'He's  found 
some  earth  over  in  Missouri  —  yellow  clay,'  he  says, 
4  that's  just  as  good  as  oatmeal,  and  he  ships  it  all  over 
the  country  to  his  oatmeal  mills  and  mixes  it  with  the 
real  stuff  and  sells  it.'  I  says:  '  He  does,  does  he  ?  Sells 
mud  mixed  with  oatmeal  ? '  and  Lige  says,  '  Yes,  sir,  he's 
got  a  whole  mountain  of  it,  and  he's  getting  ten  dollars  a 
ton  net  for  it,  which  is  better  than  a  gold  mine.'  '  And 
you  call  that  smart  ? '  says  I.  '  Yes,'  says  he,  '  yes,  sir, 
that's  commercial  instinct;  it's  perfectly  clean  mud,  and 
our  chemist  says  it  won't  harm  any  one,'  says  he.  '  And 
him  president  of  the  Golden  Belt  Elevator  Co.  ?  '  says  I. 
'  He  is,*  says  Lige.  '  And  don't  need  the  money  at  alj.  ? ' 
says  I.  '  Not  a  penny  of  it,'  says  he.  '  Well,'  says  I, 
'Lige  Bemis,'  says  I,  'when  Johnnie  gets  to  hell,  —  and 
he'll  get  thare  as  sure  as  it  doesn't  freeze  over,'  says  I, 
*  may  the  devil  put  him  under  that  mountain  of  mud  and 
keep  his  railroad  running  night  and  day  dumping  more 


A   CERTAIN   HIGH   MAN  221 

mud  on  while  he  eats  his  way  out  as  a  penance,'  says  I. 
And  you  orto  heard  'em  laugh."  Dolan  went  on  cutting 
curly-cues  from  the  leather,  and  McHurdie  kept  on  sew 
ing  at  his  bench.  "  It  is  a  queer  world  —  a  queer  world; 
and  that  Johnnie  Barclay  is  a  queer  duck.  Bringing 
Lige  Bemis  clear  down  here  to  help  old  Mart  out  of  a 
little  trouble  there  ain't  a  dollar  in;  and  then  turning 
around  and  feeding  the  American  people  a  mountain  of 
mud.  Giving  the  town  a  park  with  his  mother's  name 
on  it,  and  selling  little  tin  strips  for  ten  dollars  apiece  to 
pay  for  it.  He's  a  queer  duck.  I'll  bet  it  will  keep  the 
recording  angel  busy  keeping  books  on  Johnnie  Barclay." 

"  Oh,  well,  Jake,"  replied  McHurdie,  after  a  silence, 
"maybe  the  angels  will  just  drop  a  tear  and  wipe  much  of 
the  evil  off." 

"Maybe  so,  Watts  McHurdie,  maybe  so,"  returned 
Dolan,  "  but  there  won't  be  a  dry  eye  in  the  house,  as  the 
papers  say,  if  they  keep  up  with  him."  And  after  de 
livering  himself  of  this,  Dolan  rose  and  yawned,  and  went 
out  of  the  shop  singing  an  old  tune  which  recited  the  fact 
that  he  had  "a  job  to  do  down  in  the  boulevard." 

Looking  over  the  years  that  have  passed  since  John  Bar 
clay  and  Sycamore  Ridge  were  coming  out  of  raw  adoles 
cence  into  maturity,  one  sees  that  there  was  a  miracle  of 
change  in  them  both,  but  where  it  was  and  just  how  it 
came,  one  may  not  say.  The  town  had  no  special  advan 
tages.  It  might  have  been  one  of  a  thousand  dreary  brown 
unpainted  villages  that  dot  the  wind-swept  plain  to-day, 
instead  of  the  bright,  prosperous,  elm-shaded  town  that  it 
is.  John  Barclay  in  those  days  of  his  early  thirties  might 
have  become  a  penny-pinching  dull-witted  "prominent 
citizen "  of  the  Ridge,  with  no  wider  sphere  of  influence 
than  the  Sycamore  Valley,  or  at  most  the  Corn  Belt  Rail 
road.  But  he  and  the  town  grew,  and  whether  it  was  des 
tiny  that  guided  them,  or  whether  they  made  their  own 
destiny,  one  cannot  say.  The  town  seemed  to  be  strug 
gling  and  fighting  its  way  to  supremacy  in  the  Sycamore 
Valley ;  and  the  colonel  and  the  general  and  Watts  McHur- 
die,  sitting  in  the  harness  shop  a  score  of  years  after  those 


222  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

days  of  the  seventies,  used  to  try  to  remember  some  epi 
sode  or  event  that  would  tell  them  how  John  fought  his 
way  up.  But  they  could  not  do  so.  It  was  a  fight  in  his 
soul.  Every  time  his  hand  reached  out  to  steal  a  mill  or 
crush  an  opponent  with  the  weapon  of  his  secret  railroad 
rebates,  something  caught  his  hand  and  held  it  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  he  had  to  fight  his  way  free.  At  first  he  had 
to  learn  to  hate  the  man  he  was  about  to  ruin,  and  to  pre 
tend  that  he  thought  the  man  was  about  to  ruin  him. 
Then  he  could  justify  himself  in  his  greedy  game.  But 
at  last  he  worked  almost  merrily.  He  came  to  enjoy  the 
combat  for  its  own  sake.  And  sometimes  he  would  play 
with  a  victim  cat-wise,  and  after  a  victory  in  which  the 
mouse  fought  well,  John  would  lick  his  chops  with  some 
satisfaction  at  his  business  prowess.  Mill  after  mill  along 
the  valley  and  through  the  West  came  under  his  control. 
And  his  skin  grew  leathery,  and  the  brass  lustre  in  his 
eyes  grew  hard  and  metallic.  When  he  knew  that  he  was 
the  richest  man  in  Garrison  County,  he  saw  that  there 
were  richer  men  in  the  state,  and  in  after  years  when  he 
was  the  richest  man  in  the  state,  and  in  the  Missouri  Val 
ley,  the  rich  men  in  other  states  moved  him  by  their 
|  wealth  to  work  harder.  But  before  he  was  thirty,  his 
j  laugh  had  become  a  cackle,  and  Colonel  Martin  Culpep- 
per,  who  would  saunter  along  when  Barclay  would  limp  by 
on  Main  Street,  would  call  out  after  him,  "  Slow  down,  John 
nie,  slow  down,  boy,  or  you'll  bust  a  biler."  And  then 
the  colonel  would  pause  and  gaze  benignly  after  the  limp 
ing  figure  bobbing  along  in  the  next  block,  and  if  there 
was  a  bystander  to  address,  the  colonel  would  say,  "  For 
a  flat-wheel  he  does  certainly  make  good  time."  And 
then  if  the  bystander  looked  worth  the  while,  the  colonel, 
in  ssven  cases  out  of  ten,  would  pull  out  a  subscription 
paper  for  some  new  church  building,  or  for  some  charitable 
purpose,  and  proceed  to  solicit  the  needed  funds. 


BOOK  H 


BEING  No  CHAPTER  AT  ALL,  BUT  AN  INTERLUDE  FOB 
THE  ORCHESTRA 

AND  so  the  years  slipped  by  —  monotonous  years  they 
seem  now,  so  far  as  this  story  goes.  Because  little  hap 
pened  worth  the  telling ;  for  growth  is  so  still  and  so  dull 
and  so  undramatic  that  it  escapes  interest  and  climax ; 
yet  it  is  all  there  is  in  life.  For  the  roots  of  events  in 
the  ground  of  the  past  are  like  the  crowded  moments  of 
our  passing  lives  that  are  recorded  only  in  our  under-con- 
sciousnesses,  to  rise  in  other  years  in  character  formed,  in 
traits  established,  in  events  fructified.  And  in  the  years 
when  the  evil  days  came  not,  John  Barclay's  tragedy  was 
stirring  in  the  soil  of  his  soul. 

And  now,  ladies  arid  gentlemen,  on  behalf  of  the  man 
agement,  let  us  thank  you  for  your  kind  attention,  during 
the  tedious  act  which  has  closed.  We  have  done  our 
best  to  please  you  with  the  puppets  and  have  cracked 
their  heads  together  in  fine  fashion,  and  they  have  danced 
and  cried  and  crackled,  while  we  pulled  the  strings  as  our 
mummers  mumbled.  But  now  they  must  have  new  clothes 
on.  Time,  the  great  costumer,  must  change  their  make-up. 
So  we  will  fold  down  the  curtain.  John  Barclay,  a 
Gentleman,  must  be  painted  yellow  with  gold.  Philemon 
Ward,  a  Patriot,  must  be  sprinkled  with  gray.  Martin 
Culpepper's  Large  White  Plumes  must  be  towsled.  Watts 
Mcliurdie,  a  Poet,  must  be  bent  a  little  at  the  hips  and 
shoulders.  Adrian  Brownwell,  a  Gallant,  must  creak  as 
he  struts.  Neal  Dow  Ward,  an  Infant,  must  put  on  long 
trousers.  E.  W.  Bemis,  a  Lawyer,  must  be  dignified ; 
Jacob  Dolan,  an  Irishman  and  a  Soldier,  must  grow  un- 
kernpt  and  frowsy.  Robert  Hendricks,  Fellow  Fine, 
must  have  his  blond  hair  rubbed  off  at  the  temples,  and 
Q  225 


226  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

his  face  marked  with  maturity.  Lycurgus  Mason,  a 
Woman  Tamer,  must  get  used  to  wearing  white  shirts. 
Gabriel  Carnine,  a  Money  Changer,  must  feel  his  impor 
tance  ;  and  Oscar  Fernald,  a  Tavern  Keeper,  must  be 
hobbled  by  the  years.  All  but  the  shades  must  be  refur 
bished.  General  Hendricks  and  Elmer,  his  son,  must  fade 
farther  into  the  mists  of  the  past,  while  Henry  Schnitzler 
settles  comfortably  down  in  storied  urn  and  animated 
bust. 

There  they  hang  together  on  the  line,  these  basswood 
folk,  and  beside  them  wave  their  womankind.  These 
also  must  be  repaired  and  refitted  throughout,  as  Oscar 
Fernald's  letter-heads  used  to  say  of  the  Thayer  House. 
Jane  Barclay,  Wife  of  John,  must  have  the  "star  light, 
star  bright"  wiped  out  of  her  eyes.  Mary  Barclay, 
Mother  of  the  Same,  must  have  her  limbs  trimmed  gaunt, 
and  her  face  chiselled  strong  and  indomitable.  Jeanette 
Barclay,  a  Toddler,  must  grow  into  dresses.  Molly  Cul- 
pepper,  a  Dear,  must  have  her  heart  taken  out,  and  her 
face  show  the  shock  of  the  operation.  Nellie  Logan,  a 
poet's  Wife,  must  join  all  the  lodges  in  the  Ridge  to  help 
her  husband  in  politics.  Trixie  Lee,  little  Beatrix  Lee, 
daughter  of  J.  Lord  and  Lady  Lee,  must  have  her  child 
ish  face  scarred  and  her  eyes  glazed.  Mrs.  Hally  Bemis, 
a  Prodigal,  must  be  swathed  in  silk.  Elizabeth  Cady 
Stanton  Ward  and  all  her  sisters  must  be  put  in  the 
simple  garb  of  school-teachers.  Miss  Hendricks,  a  Mouse, 
must  hide  in  the  dusky  places ;  and  Ellen  Culpepper,  a 
Memory,  must  come  to  life. 

And  so,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  while  we  have  been 
diverting  you,  Time  has  been  at  work  on  the  little  people 
of  the  passing  show,  and  now  before  we  draw  back  the 
curtain  to  let  them  caper  across  your  hearts,  let  us  again 
thank  you  one  and  all  for  your  courtesy  in  staying,  and 
hope  that  what  you  see  and  hear  may  make  you  wiser  and 
kinder  and  braver  ;  for  this  is  a  moral  entertainment,  good 
people,  planned  to  show  you  that  yesterday  makes  to-day 
and  they  both  make  to-morrow,  and  so  the  world  spins 
round  the  sun. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  rumble  of  the  wheels  in  the  great  stone  mill  across 
the  Sycamore  and  the  roar  of  the  waters  over  the  dam  seem 
to  have  been  in  Jeanette  Barclay's  ears  from  the  day  of 
her  birth;  for  she  was  but  a  baby  when  the  stone  mill  rose 
where  the  little  red  mill  had  stood,  and  beside  the  stone 
mill  there  had  grown  up  the  long  stone  factory  wherein 
Lycurgus  Mason  was  a  man  of  consequence.  As  the  trains 
whirled  by  strangers  could  see  the  signs  in  mammoth 
letters,  "  The  Golden  Belt  Mills  "  on  the  larger  building 
and  on  the  smaller,  "  The  Barclay  Economy  Door  Strip 
Factory."  Standing  on  the  stone  steps  of  her  father's 
house  the  child  could  read  these  signs  clear  across  the  mill- 
pond,  and  from  these  signs  she  learned  her  letters.  For 
her  father  had  more  pride  in  that  one  mill  on  the  Sycamore 
than  in  the  scores  of  other  mills  that  he  controlled.  And 
even  in  after  years,  when  he  controlled  mills  all  over  the 
West,  and  owned  railroads  upon  which  to  take  his  flour  to 
the  sea,  and  ships  in  which  to  carry  his  flour  all  over  the 
world,  the  Golden  Belt  Mill  at  Sycamore  Ridge  was  his 
chief  pride.  The  rumble  of  the  wheels  and  the  hoarse 
voice  of  the  dam  that  seemed  to  Jeanette  like  the  call  of 
the  sea,  were  so  sweet  to  her  father's  ears  that  when  he 
wearied  of  the  work  of  the  National  Provisions  Company, 
with  its  two  floors  of  busy  offices  in  the  Corn  Exchange 
Building  in  the  great  city,  he  would  come  home  to  Syca 
more  Ridge,  and  go  to  his  private  office  in  the  mill.  The 
child  remembers  what  seemed  like  endless  days,  but  what 
in  truth  were  only  a  few  hours  in  a  few  days  in  a  few 
years,  when  Daddy  Barclay  carried  her  on  his  shoulders 
across  the  bridge  and  sat  her  down  barefooted  and  bare 
headed  to  play  upon  the  dam,  while  he  in  his  old  clothes 
prodded  among  the  great  wheels  near  by  or  sat  beside  her 

227 


228  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

telling  her  where  he  caught  this  fish  or  that  fish  or  a  turtle 
or  a  water  moccasin  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  At  low 
water,  she  remembers  that  he  sometimes  let  her  wade  in 
the  clear  stream,  while  he  sat  in  his  office  near  by  watching 
her  from  the  window.  That  was  when  she  was  only  four 
years  old,  and  she  always  had  the  strangest  memory  of  a 
playfellow  on  the  dam,  a  big  girl,  who  fluttered  in  and  out 
of  the  shadows  on  the  stones.  Jeanette  talked  with  her, 
but  no  one  else  could  see  her,  and  once  the  big  girl,  who 
could  not  talk  herself,  stamped  her  feet  and  beckoned 
Jeanette  to  come  away  from  a  rock  on  which  she  was 
playing,  and  her  father,  looking  out  of  a  window,  turned 
white  when  he  saw  a  snake  coiled  beside  the  rock.  But 
Jeanette  saw  the  snake  and  was  frightened,  and  told  her 
father  that  Ellen  saw  it  too,  and  she  could  not  make  him 
understand  who  Ellen  was.  So  he  only  trembled  and 
hugged  his  little  girl  to  him  tightly,  and  mother  would 
not  let  the  child  play  on  the  dam  again  all  that  summer. 

She  made  songs  to  fit  the  rhythmic  murmur  of  the 
wheels.  And  always  she  remembered  the  days  she  had 
spent  with  Daddy  Mason  in  the  factory  where  the  machines 
thumped  and  creaked,  and  where  the  long  rubber  sheets 
were  cut  and  sewed,  and  the  clanking  rolls  of  tin  and  zinc 
curled  into  strips,  and  Daddy  Mason  made  her  a  little  set 
of  dishes  and  all  the  things  she  needed  in  her  playhouse 
from  the  scraps  of  tin  and  rubber,  and  she  learned  to  twist 
the  little  tin  strips  on  a  stick  and  make  the  prettiest  bright 
shiny  tin  curls  for  her  dolls  that  a  little  girl  ever  saw  in  all 
the  world.  And  once  Ellen  came  from  among  the  moving 
shadows  of  the  wheels  and  drew  Jeanette  from  beneath  a 
great  knife  that  fell  at  her  feet,  and  when  Daddy  Mason 
saw  what  had  happened  he  fainted,  poor  man,  and  made 
her  promise  never,  never,  so  long  as  she  lived,  to  tell 
Grandma  Mason.  And  then  he  drove  her  up  town,  and 
they  had  some  ice-cream,  and  she  was  sent  to  bed  without 
her  lunch  because  she  would  not  tell  Grandma  Mason  why 
grandpa  bought  ice-cream  for  her. 

It  was  such  a  beautiful  life,  so  natural  and  so  exactly 
what  a  little  girl  should  have,  that  even  though  she  went 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  229 

to  the  ocean  and  crossed  it  as  a  child  with  her  mother  and 
grandmother,  and  even  though  she  went  to  the  mountains 
many  times,  her  childish  heart  always  was  homesick  for 
the  mill,  and  at  night  in  her  dreams  her  ears  were  filled 
with  the  murmur  of  waters  and  the  wordless  song  of  cease 
less  wheels.  And  once  when  she  came  back  a  big  girl,  — 
an  exceedingly  big  girl  with  braids  down  her  back,  a  girl 
in  the  third  reader  in  fact,  who  could  read  everything  in 
the  fourth  reader,  because  she  had  already  done  so,  and 
who  could  read  Eugene  Aram  in  the  back  of  the  sixth, 
only  she  never  did  find  out  what  "  gyves  upon  his  wrists  " 
meant,  —  once  when  she  came  back  to  the  dam  and  was 
sitting  there  looking  at  the  sunset  reflected  in  the  bubbling, 
froth-flecked  water  at  her  feet,  Ellen  came  suddenly,  under 
the  noise  of  the  roaring  water,  and  frightened  Jeanette  so 
that  she  screamed  and  jumped,  and  Ellen,  who  was  much 
older  than  Jeanette  —  four  or  five  and  maybe  six  years 
older  —  ran  right  over  the  slippery,  moss-covered  ridge  of 
the  dam,  and  was  gone  before  Jeanette  could  call  her  back. 
The  child  never  saw  her  playmate  again,  though  often 
Jeanette  would  wonder  where  Ellen  lived  and  who  she 
was.  As  the  years  went  by,  Jeanette  came  to  remember 
her  playmate  as  her  dream  child,  and  once  when  she  was 
a  young  miss  of  eighteen,  and  something  in  her  hurt  to  be 
said,  she  tried  to  make  a  little  poem  about  her  dream-child 
playmate,  but  all  she  ever  got  was :  — 

"  O  eyes,  so  brown  and  clear  like  water  sparkling  over 
mossy  stones." 

So  she  gave  it  up  and  wrote  a  poem  about  a  prince  who 
carried  away  a  maiden,  and  then  she  tore  up  the  prince 
and  the  maiden,  and  if  it  were  not  for  that  line  about  the 
eyes  in  the  back  of  her  trigonometry,  with  a  long  list  of 
words  under  it  rhyming  with  "  stones,"  she  would  have 
forgotten  about  her  playfellow,  and  much  of  the  memory 
of  the  dam  and  the  pride  she  took  as  a  child  in  the  great 
letters  upon  the  high  stone  walls  of  the  mills,  and  of  the 
word  "  Barclay  "  on  the  long  low  walls  of  the  factory, 
might  have  passed  from  her  consciousness  altogether.  By 
such  frail  links  does  memory  bind  us  to  our  past ;  and  yet, 


230  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

once  formed,  how  like  steel  they  hold  us  !  What  we  will 
be,  grows  from  what  we  are,  and  what  we  are  has  grown 
from  what  we  were.  If  Jeanette  Barclay,  the  only  child 
of  a  man  who,  when  she  was  in  her  twenties,  was  to  be  one 
of  the  hundred  richest  men  in  his  country, —  so  far  as  mere 
money  goes, —  had  been  brought  up  with  a  governess  and 
a  maid,  and  with  frills  and  furbelows  and  tucks  and 
Heaven  knows  what  of  silly  kinks  and  fluffy  stuff  in  her 
childish  head,  instead  of  being  brought  up  in  the  Syca 
more  Ridge  public  schools,  with  Grandmother  Barclay 
to  teach  her  the  things  that  a  little  girl  in  the  fourth 
reader  should  know,  and  with  a  whole  community  of 
honest,  hard -working  men  and  women  about  her  to  teach 
her  what  life  really  is,  indeed  she  would  have  lived  a  dif 
ferent  life,  and  when  she  was  ready  to  marry  —  But  there 
we  go  looking  in  the  back  of  the  book  again,  and  that 
will  not  do  at  all;  and  besides,  a  little  blue-eyed  girl  in 
gingham  aprons,  sitting  on  a  cool  stone  with  moss  on  its 
north  side,  watching  the  bass  play  among  the  rocks  in  a 
clear,  deep,  sun-mottled  pool  under  a  great  elm  tree,  has 
a  right  to  the  illusions  of  her  childhood  and  should  not 
be  hustled  into  long  dresses  and  love  affairs  until  her 
time  has  come. 

But  the  recollection  of  those  days,  so  vivid  and  so 
sweet, -is  one  of  her  choicest  treasures.  Of  course  things 
were  not  as  she  saw  them.  Jake  Dolan  was  only  in  his 
forties  then,  and  considered  himself  a  young  man.  But 
the  child  remembers  him  as  a  tall,  brown-eyed  man  whom 
she  saw  on  state  occasions  in  his  faded  blue  army  clothes, 
and  to  her  he  has  always  been  the  picture  of  a  veteran. 
Some  one  must  have  told  her  —  though  she  cannot  remem 
ber  who  it  was —  that  as  Jake  Dolan  gently  descended 
the  social  and  political  scale,  he  sloughed  off  his  worldly 
goods,  and  as  he  moved  about  in  the  court-house  from  the 
sheriff's  office  to  the  deputy's  office,  and  from  the  deputy's 
to  the  bailiff's,  and  from  the  bailiff's  to  the  constable's,  and 
from  the  constable's  to  the  janitor's  room  in  the  basement, 
he  carried  with  him  the  little  bundle  that  contained  all 
his  worldly  goods,  the  thin  blue  uniform,  spotless  and  trim, 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  231 

and  his  lieutenant's  commission,  and  mustering-out  papers 
from  the  army.  It  is  odd,  is  it  not,  that  this  prosaic  old 
chap,  who  smoked  a  clay  pipe,  and  whose  only  accomplish 
ment  was  the  ability  to  sing  "  The  Hat  me  Father  Wore," 
under  three  drinks,  and  the  "  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill," 
under  ten,  should  have  epitomized  all  that  was  heroic  in 
this  child's  memory.  As  for  General  Philemon  Ward,  — 
a  dear  old  crank  who,  when  Jeanette  was  born,  was  vot 
ing  with  the  Republican  party  for  the  first  time  since  the 
war,  and  who  ran  twice  for  President  on  some  strange 
issue  before  she  was  in  long  dresses,  —  General  Ward, 
whose  children's  ages  could  be  guessed  by  the  disturbers 
of  the  public  peace,  whose  names  they  bore,  —  Eli  Thayer, 
Mary  Livermore,  Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton,  Frances  Wil- 
lard,  Neal  Dow,  Belva  Lockwood,  and  Helen  Gougar, 
—  General  Ward,  who  scorned  her  father's  offer  of  ten 
thousand  dollars  a  year  as  state  counsel  for  the  National 
Provisions  Company,  and  went  out  preaching  fiat  money 
and  a  subtreasury  for  the  farmers'  crops,  trusting  to 
God  and  the  flower  garden  about  his  little  white  house, 
to  keep  the  family  alive — it  is  odd  that  Jeanette's 
childish  impression  was  that  General  Ward  was  a  man  of 
consequence  in  the  world.  Perhaps  his  white  necktie,  his 
long  black  coat,  and  his  keen  lean  face,  or  his  prematurely 
gray  hair,  gave  her  some  sort  of  a  notion  of  his  dignity, 
but  whatever  gave  her  that  notion  she  kept  it,  and  though 
in  her  later  life  there  came  a  passing  time  when  she  hated 
him,  she  did  not  despise  him.  And  what  with  the  song 
that  she  heard  the  bands  playing  all  over  the  country,  the 
song  that  the  bands  sometimes  played  for  Americans  in 
Europe,  very  badly,  as  though  it  was  being  translated  from 
English  into  broken  French  or  Italian,  what  with  Watts 
McHurdie's  fame  and  with  his  verses  that  appeared  in  the 
Banner  on  formal  occasions,  the  girl  built  a  fancy  of  him 
as  one  of  the  world's  great  poets —  some  one  like  Shake 
speare  or  Milton ;  and  she  was  well  into  her  teens  before 
she  realized  the  truth,  that  he  was  an  excellent  harness 
maker  who  often  brought  out  of  his  quaint  little  dream 
world  odd-shaped  fancies  in  rhyme,  —  some  grotesque, 


232  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

some  ridiculous,  and  some  that  seemed  pretty  for  a 
moment,  —  and  who  under  the  stress  of  a  universal  emo 
tion  had  rhymed  one  phase  of  our  common  nature  and  set 
it  to  a  simple  tune  that  moved  men  deeply  without  regard 
to  race  or  station.  So  she  lived  in  her  child  world—' 
a  world  quite  different  from  the  real  world  —  a  world 
gilded  by  the  sunrise  of  consciousness ;  and  because  the 
angels  loved  her  and  kept  her  heart  clean,  the  gilding 
never  quite  wore  off  her  heroes.  And  nothing  that  Heaven 
gives  us  in  this  world  is  so  blessed  as  to  have  the  gilding 
stick  to  the  images  of  our  youth.  In  Jeanette's  case  even 
Lige  Bemis  —  Judge  Bemis,  she  had  been  taught  to  call 
him  —  never  showed  the  tar  under  the  gilding  to  her  eyes. 
Her  first  memory  of  him  was  in  her  father's  office  in  the 
big  City.  He  was  a  tall  man,  with  gray  hair  that  became 
him  well,  with  sharp  black  eyes,  and  enough  flesh  on  his 
bones  to  carry  the  frock-coats  he  always  wore  and  give 
him  a  corporosity  just  escaping  the  portly.  She  remem 
bers  seeing  the  name  "  E.  W.  Bemis"  in  gold  letters  on  the 
door  of  his  room,  and  not  being  able  to  figure  out  how  a 
man  whose  name  began  with  "  E  "  or  "W  "  could  be  called 
Lige.  He  was  General  Counsel  of  the  Corn  Belt  Railroad 
in  those  days,  when  her  father  was  president  of  the  road, 
and  she  knew  that  he  was  a  man  always  to  be  considered. 
And  when,  as  a  woman  grown,  she  learned  the  truth  about 
Lige  Bemis,  it  was  hard  to  believe,  for  all  she  could  find 
against  him  was  his  everlasting  smile. 

It  is  a  curious  and  withal  a  beautiful  thing  to  see  a 
child  come  into  the  worn  and  weary  world  that  we  grown 
ups  have  made,  and  make  it  over  into  another  world  alto 
gether.  Perhaps  the  child's  eye  and  the  child's  heart, 
fresh  from  God,  see  and  feel  more  clearly  and  more  justly 
than  we  do.  For  this  much  is  sure — Jeanette  was  right 
in  keeping  to  the  end  the  image  of  Colonel  Martin  Cul- 
pepper  as  a  knight-errant,  who  needed  only  a  bespangled 
steed,  a  little  less  avoirdupois,  and  a  foolish  cause  to  set 
him  battling  in  the  tourney.  As  it  was,  in  this  humdrum 
world,  the  colonel  could  do  nothing  more  heroic  than  come 
rattling  down  Main  Street  into  the  child's  heart,  sitting 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  233 

with  some  dignity  in  his  weather-beaten  buggy,  while  in 
stead  of  shining  armour  and  a  glistening  helmet  he  wore 
nankeen  trousers,  a  linen  coat,  and  a  dignified  panama  hat. 
Moreover,  it  is  stencilled  into  her  memory  indelibly  that 
the  colonel  was  the  first  man  in  this  wide  world  to  raise 
his  hat  to  her. 

Now  it  should  not  be  strange  that  this  world  was  a  sad 
jumble  of  fiction  and  of  facts  to  a  child's  eyes ;  for  to 
many  an  older  pair  of  eyes  it  has  all  seemed  a  puzzle. 
Even  the  shrewd,  kind  brown  eyes  of  Jacob  Dolan  often 
failed  to  see  things  as  they  were,  and  what  his  eyes  did 
see  sometimes  bewildered  him.  By  day  Dolan  saw  Rob 
ert  Hendricks,  president  of  the  Exchange  National  Bank, 
president  and  manager  of  the  Sycamore  Ridge  Light, 
Heat,  and  Power  Company,  proprietor  of  the  Hendricks 
Mercantile  Company,  treasurer  and  first  vice-president  of 
the  new  Western  Wholesale  Grocery,  and  chairman  of 
his  party's  congressional  centra],  committee,  and  Dolan's 
eyes  saw  a  hard,  busy  man — a  young  man,  it  is  true;  a 
tall,  straight,  rather  lean,  rope-haired  young  man  in  his 
thirties,  with  frank  blue  eyes,  that  turned  rather  suddenly 
upon  one  as  if  to  frighten  out  a  secret.  The  man  seemed 
real  enough  to  Dolan,  from  the  wide  crown  of  his  slightly 
bald,  V-shaped  head,  to  his  feet  with  the  hard  click  in 
the  heels  ;  and  yet  that  man  paid  no  particular  attention 
to  Dolan.  It  was  "  Hello,  Jake,"  with  a  nod,  as  they 
passed,  maybe  only  an  abstracted  stare  and  a  grunt.  But 
at  night,  as  they  walked  together  over  the  town  under  the 
stars  or  moon,  a  lonely  soul  rose  out  of  the  tall  body  and 
spread  over  the  face. 

Dolan  kept  to  his  pipe  and  Hendricks  to  his  cigar. 
But  these  were  the  only  marks  of  caste  between  them. 
One  night  Hendricks  led  the  way  across  the  bridge  down 
the  river  road  and  into  the  fields.  They  walked  far  up 
the  stream  and  their  conversation  had  consisted  largely  of 
"Watch  out,"  "All  right,"  "I  see,"  "This  is  the  best 
way."  They  loitered  down  a  dark  lane  shaded  by  hedge 
rows  until  they  came  to  a  little  wooden  bridge  and  sat 
down.  Dolan  looked  at  the  stars,  while  a  pipe  and  a  cigar 


234  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

had  burned  out  before  Hendricks  spoke,  "Well,  chatter- 
box?" 

"  I  was  bothered  with  a  question  of  mistaken  identity," 
replied  Dolan.  To  the-  silence  he  answered  :  "  Me  myself. 
I'm  the  man.  Do  you  happen  to  know  who  I  am?" 
Hendricks  broke  a  splinter  from  the  wood  under  him,  and 
Dolan  continued :  "  Of  course  you  don't,  and  neither  do  I. 
For  example,  I  go  down  into  Union  township  before  elec 
tion  and  visit  with  the  boys.  I  bring  a  box  of  cigars  and 
maybe  a  nip  under  the  buggy  seat,  and  maybe  a  few  stray 
five-dollar  bills  for  the  lads  that  drive  the  wagons  that 
haul  the  voters  to  the  polls.  I  go  home,  and  I  says  to 
myself  :  '  I  have  that  bailiwick  to  a  man.  No  votes  there 
against  Jake.'  But  the  morning  after  election  I  see  Jake 
didn't  get  but  two  votes  in  the  township.  Very  well.  Now 
who  did  they  vote  against  ?  Surely  not  against  the  genial 
obliging  rollicking  Irish  lad  whose  face  I  shave  every 
other  morning.  What  could  they  possibly  have  against 
him  ?  No  —  they  voted  against  that  man  Dolan,  who  got 
drunk  at  the  Fair  and  throwed  the  gate  receipts  into  the 
well,  and  tried  to  shoo  the  horses  off  the  track  into  the 
crowd  at  the  home-stretch  of  the  trotting  race.  He's 
the  man  they  plugged.  And  there's  another  one  —  him 
that  confesses  to  Father  Van  Sandt."  Dolan  shook  his 
head  sadly  and  sighed.  "  He's  a  black-hearted  wretch. 
If  you  want  to  see  how  a  soul  will  look  in  its  underwear, 
get  an  Irishman  to  confess  to  a  Dutchman."  The  chirp 
of  crickets  arose  in  the  silence,  and  after  a  time  Dolan  con 
cluded,  "  And  now  there  abideth  these  three,  me  that  I 
shave,  me  that  they  vote  against,  and  me  that  the  Father 
knows;  and  the  greatest  of  these  is  charity  —  I  dunno." 

The  soul  beside  him  on  the  bridge  came  back  from  a 
lilac  bower  of  other  years,  with  a  girl's  lips  glowing  upon 
his  and  the  beat  of  a  girl's  heart  throbbing  against  his 
own.  The  soul  was  seared  with  images  that  must  ntver 
find  spoken  words,  and  it  moved  the  lips  to  say  after 
exhaling  a  deep  breath  from  its  body,  "Well,  let's  go 
home."  There,  too,  was  a  question  of  identity.  Who  was 
Robert  Hendricks?  Was  he  the  man  chosen  to  lead  his 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  235 

party  organization  because  he  was  clean  above  reproach 
and  a  man  of  ideals ;  was  he  the  man  who  was  trusted  tx 
with  the  money  of  the  people  of  his  town  and  county  im 
plicitly  ;  or  was  he  the  man  who  knew  that  on  page  234 
of  the  cash  ledger  for  1879  in  the  county  treasurer's  office 
in  the  Garrison  County  court-house  there  was  a  forgery 
in  his  own  handwriting  to  cover  nine  thousand  dollars 
of  his  father's  debt?  Or  was  he  the  man  who  for  seven 
years  had  crept  into  a  neighbour's  garden  on  a  certain 
night  in  April  to  smell  the  lilac  blossoms  and  always  had 
found  them  gone,  and  had  stood  there  rigid,  with  upturned 
face  and  clenched  fists,  cursing  a  fellow-man  ?  Or  was  he 
the  man  who  in  the  county  convention  of  his  party  had 
risen  pale  with  anger,  and  had  walked  across  the  floor 
and  roared  his  denunciation  of  Elijah  W.  Bemis  as  a 
boodler  and  a  scoundrel  squarely  to  the  man's  gray,  smirk 
ing  face  and  chattering  teeth,  and  then  had  reached  down, 
and  grabbed  the  trapped  bribe-giver  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck  and  literally  thrown  him  out  of  the  convention,  while 
the  crowd  went  mad  with  applause?  As  he  went  home 
that  night  following  the  convention,  walking  by  the  side 
of  Dolan  in  silence,  he  wondered  which  of  all  his  aliases 
he  really  was.  At  the  gate  of  the  Hendricks  home  the 
two  men  stopped.  Hendricks  smiled  quizzically  as  he 
asked  :  "  Well,  I  give  it  up,  Jake.  By  the  way,  did  you 
ever  meet  me?" 

The  brown  eyes  of  the  Irishman  beamed  an  instant 
through  the  night,  before  he  hurried  lightly  down  the 
street. 

And  so  with  all  of  this  hide-and-seek  of  souls,  now  peer 
ing  from  behind  eyes  and  now  far  away  patting  one  —  two 
—  three  upon  some  distant  base,  with  all  these  queer  goings- 
on  inside  of  people  here  in  this  strange  world,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  when  the  angels  brought  Jeanette  to  the  Bar 
clays,  they  left  her  much  to  learn  and  many  things  to  study 
about.  So  she  had  to  ask  questions.  But  questions  often 
reveal  more  than  answers.  At  least  once  they  revealed 
much,  when  she  sat  on  the  veranda  of  the  Barclay  home 
a  fine  spring  evening  with  all  the  company  there.  Aunt 


236  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

Molly  was  there ;  and  Uncle  Bob  Hendricks  was  there, 
the  special  guest  of  Grandma  Barclay.  Uncle  Adrian 
was  away  on  a  trip  somewhere ;  but  Uncle  Colonel  and 
Grandma  Culpepper  and  all  the  others  were  there  listen 
ing  to  father's  new  German  music-box,  and  no  one  should 
blame  a  little  girl,  sitting  shyly  on  the  stone  steps,  trying 
to  make  something  out  of  the  absurd  world  around  her,  if 
she  piped  out  when  the  talk  stopped :  — 

*'  Mother,  why  does  Aunt  Molly  cut  off  her  lilac  buds 
before  they  bloom?  " 

And  when  her  mother  assured  her  that  Aunt  Molly  did 
nothing  of  the  kind,  and  when  Uncle  Bob  Hendricks 
looked  up  and  saw  Aunt  Molly  go  pale  under  her  powder, 
and  when  Aunt  Molly  said,  "  Why,  Jane  —  the  child  must 
have  dreamed  that,"  no  one  in  this  wide  world  must  blame 
a  little  girl  for  opening  her  eyes  as  wide  as  she  could,  and 
lifting  her  little  voice  as  strongly  as  she  could,  and  saying  : 
"Why,  Aunt  Molly,  you  know  I  saw  you  last  night  — 
when  I  stayed  with  you.  You  know  I  did,  'cause  I  looked 
out  of  the  window  and  spokened  to  you.  You  know  I 
did  —  don't  you  remember?"  And  no  one  must  blame 
the  mother  for  shaking  her  finger  at  Jeanette,  and  no  one 
must  blame  Jeanette  for  sitting  there  shaking  a  protesting 
head,  and  screwing  up  her  little  face,  trying  to  make  the 
puzzle  out. 

And  when,  later  in  the  evening,  Daddy  Barclay  went 
over  to  the  mill  with  his  work,  and  Uncle  Bob  left  in  the 
twilight,  and  Aunt  Molly  and  mother  were  alone  in 
mother's  room,  how  should  a  little  girl  know  what  the 
crying  was  all  about,  and  how  should  a  little  girl  under 
stand  when  a  small  woman,  looking  in  a  mirror,  and  dab 
bing  her  face  with  a  powder  rag,  said  to  mother,  who 
knows  everything  in  the  world,  and  all  about  the  angels 
that  brought  you  here  :  "  Oh,  Jane,  Jane,  you  don't  know 
—  you  don't  understand.  There  are  things  that  I  couldn't 
make  you  understand  —  and  I  mustn't  even  think  of  them." 

Surely  it  is  a  curious  world  for  little  girls  —  a  passing 
curious  world,  when  there  are  things  in  it  that  even 
mothers  cannot  understand. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  237 

So  Jeanette  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  went  to 
sleep,  leaving  Aunt  Molly  powdering  her  nose  and  ask 
ing  mother,  "Does  it  look  all  right  now — "  and  adding, 
"  Oh,  I'm  such  a  fool."  In  so  illogical  a  world,  the  reader 
must  not  be  allowed  to  think  that  Molly  Brownwell 
lamented  the  folly  of  mourning  for  a  handsome  young 
gentleman  in  blue  serge  with  white  spats  on  his  shoes  and 
a  Byronic  collar  and  a  fluffy  necktie  of  the  period.  Far 
be  it  from  her  to  lament  that  sentiment  as  folly ;  however, 
when  she  looked  at  her  eyes  in  the  mirror  and  saw  her 
nose,  she  felt  that  tears  were  expensive  and  reproached 
herself  for  them.  But  so  long  as  these  souls  of  ours, 
whatever  they  may  be,  are  caged  in  our  bodies,  our  poor 
bodies  will  have  to  bear  witness  to  their  prisoners.  If 
the  soul  smiles  the  body  shines,  and  if  the  soul  frets  the 
body  withers.  And  Molly  Brownwell  saw  in  the  looking- 
glass  that  night  more  surely  than  ever  before  that  her  face 
was  beginning  to  slump.  Her  cheeks  were  no  longer  firm, 
and  at  her  eyes  were  the  stains  of  tears  that  would  not 
wipe  off,  but  crinkled  the  skin  at  the  temples  and  deepened 
the  shadows  into  wide  salmon-coloured  lines  that  fell  away 
from  each  side  of  the  nose  so  that  no  trick  could  hide 
them.  Moreover,  the  bright  eyes  that  used  to  flash  into 
Bob  Hendricks'  steady  blue  eyes  had  grown  tired,  and 
women  who  did  not  know,  wondered  why  sucli  a  pretty 
girl  had  broken  so. 

The  Culpeppers  had  remained  with  the  Barclays  for 
dinner,  and  the  hour  was  late  for  the  Ridge  —  after  nine 
o'clock,  and  as  the  departing  guests  went  down  the  long 
curved  walk  of  Barclay  pride  to  the  Barclay  gate,  they 
saw  a  late  April  moon  rising  over  the  trees  by  the  mill. 
They  clanged  the  tall  iron  gate  behind  them,  and  stood  a 
moment  watching  the  moon.  For  the  colonel  never  grew 
too  old  to  notice  it.  He  put  his  arms  about  his  wife  and 
his  daughter  tenderly,  and  said  before  they  started  up  the 
street,  "It  never  grows  old  —  does  it?"  And  he  pressed 
his  wife  to  him  gently  and  repeated,  "Does  it,  my  dear— • 
it's  the  same  old  moon ;  the  one  we  used  to  have  in  Vir 
ginia  before  the  war,  isn't  it  ?  " 


238  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

His  wife  smiled  at  him  placidly  and  said,  "  Now,  pa  — * 

Whereupon  the  colonel  squeezed  his  daughter  lustily, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Well,  Molly  still  loves  me,  anyway. 
Don't  you,  Molly  ? "  And  the  younger  woman  patted 
his  cheek,  and  then  they  started  for  home. 

"  Papa,  how  much  money  has  John  ?  "  asked  the  daughter, 
as  they  walked  along. 

A  man  always  likes  to  be  regarded  as  an  authority  in 
financial  matters,  and  the  colonel  stroked  his  goatee  wisely 
before  replying  :  "  U-h-m-m,  let  me  see  —  I  don't  exactly 
know.  Bob  and  I  were  talking  about  it  the  other  day^ 
after  I  bought  John's  share  in  College  Heights  —  last 
year,  to  be  exact.  Of  course  he's  got  the  mill  and  it's  all 
paid  for  —  say  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  —  and  that  old 
wheat  land  he  got  back  in  the  seventies  —  he's  cleaned  all 
of  that  up.  I  should  say  that  and  the  mill  were  easily 
worth  half  a  million,  and  they're  both  clear.  That's  all 
in  sight."  The  colonel  ruminated  a  moment  and  then 
continued :  "  About  the  rest  —  it's  a  guess.  Some  say  a 
million,  some  say  ten.  All  I  know  in  point  of  fact,  my 
dear,  to  get  right  down  to  bed-rock,  is  that  Lycurgus  says 
they  are  turning  out  two  or  three  car-loads  of  the  strips  a 
year.  I  wouldn't  believe  Lycurgus  on  a  stack  of  Bibles 
as  high  as  his  head,  but  little  Thayer  Ward,  who  works 
down  there  in  the  shipping  department,  told  the  general 
the  same  thing,  and  Bob  says  he  knows  John  gets  ten 
dollars  apiece  for  them  now,  so  that's  a  million  dollars  a 
year  income  he's  got.  He  handles  grain  and  flour  way  up 
in  Minnesota,  and  back  as  far  as  Ohio,  and  west  to  Cali 
fornia.  But  what  he  actually  owns,  —  that  is,  whether  he 
rents  the  mills  or,  to  be  exact,  steals  them,  —  I  haven't 
any  idea  —  not  the  slightest  notion  in  the  world,  in  point 
of  fact  —  not  the  slightest  notion." 

As  they  passed  through  Main  Street  it  was  deserted, 
save  in  the  billiard  halls,  and  as  no  one  seemed  inclined  to 
talk,  the  colonel  took  up  the  subject  of  Barclay  :  "Say  we 
call  it  five  million  —  five  million  in  round  numbers  ;  that's 
a  good  deal  of  money  for  a  man  to  have  and  haggle  a 
month  over  seventy-five  dollars  the  way  he  did  with  me 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  233 

when  he  sold  me  his  share  of  College  Heights.  But," 
added  the  colonel,  "  I  suppose  if  I  had  that  much  I'd  value 
it  more."  The  women  were  thinking  of  other  things,  and 
the  colonel  addressed  the  night :  "  Man  gets  an  appetite 
for  money  just  as  he  does  for  liquor  —  just  like  the  love 
for  whiskey,  I  may  say."  He  shook  his  sides  as  he  medi 
tated  aloud  :  "  But  as  for  me  —  I  guess  I've  got  so  I  can 
take  it  or  let  it  alone.  Eh,  ma  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  catch  what  you  were  saying,  pa,"  answered 
his  wife.  "  I  was  just  thinking  whether  we  had  potatoes 
enough  to  make  hash  for  breakfast ;  have  we,  Molly  ?  " 

As  the  women  were  discussing  the  breakfast,  two  men 
came  out  of  a  cross  street,  and  the  colonel,  who  was  slightly 
in  advance  of  his  women,  hailed  the  men  with,  "  Hello 
there,  Bob  —  you  and  Jake  out  here  carrying  on  your 
illicit  friendship  in  the  dark  ?  " 

The  men  and  the  Culpeppers  stopped  for  a  moment  at 
the  corner.  Molly  Brownwell's  heart  throbbed  as  they 
met,  and  she  thought  of  the  rising  moon,  and  in  an  instant 
her  brain  was  afire  with  a  hope  that  shamed  her.  Three 
could  not  walk  abreast  on  the  narrow  sidewalk  up  the 
hill,  and  when  she  heard  Hendricks  say  after  the  group 
had  parleyed  a  moment,  "  Well,  Jake,  good  night ;  I'll  go 
on  home  with  the  colonel,"  she  managed  the  pairing  off 
so  that  the  young  man  fell  to  her,  and  the  colonel  and 
Mrs.  Culpepper  walked  before  the  younger  people,  and 
they  all  talked  together.  But  at  Lincoln  Avenue,  the 
younger  people  disconnected  themselves  from  the  talk  of 
the  elders,  and  finally  lagged  a  few  feet  behind.  When 
they  reached  the  gate  the  colonel  called  back,  "Better 
come  in  and  visit  a  minute,  Bob,"  and  Molly  added,  "  Yes, 
Bob,  it's  early  yet." 

But  what  she  said  with  her  voice  did  not  decide  the 
matter  for  him.  It  was  her  eyes.  And  what  he  said 
with  his  voice  is  immaterial  —  it  was  what  his  eyes  re 
plied  that  the  woman  caught.  What  he  said  was,  "  Well, 
just  for  a  minute,  Colonel,"  and  the  party  walked  up  the 
steps  of  the  veranda,  and  Bob  and  .Molly  and  the  colonel 
sat  down. 


240  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Mrs.  Culpepper  stood  for  a  moment  and  then  said, 
"  Well,  Bob,  you  must  excuse  me  —  I  forgot  to  set  my 
sponge,  and  there  isn't  a  bit  of  bread  in  the  house  for 
Sunday."  Whereupon  she  left  them,  and  when  the  colo 
nel  had  talked  himself  out  he  left  them,  and  when  the  two 
were  alone  there  came  an  awkward  silence.  In  the  years 
they  had  been  apart  a  thousand  things  had  stirred  in  their 
hearts  to  say  at  this  time,  yet  all  their  voices  spoke  was, 
"  Well,  Molly  ?  "  and  "  Well,  Bob  ?  "  The  moon  was  in 
their  faces  as  it  shone  through  the  elm  at  the  gate.  The 
man  turned  his  chair  so  that  he  could  look  at  her,  and  after 
satisfying  his  eyes  he  broke  the  silence  with,  "  Seven 
years." 

And  she  returned,  "  Seven  years  the  thirteenth  of 
April." 

The  man  played  a  tune  with  his  fingers  and  a  foot  and 
said  nothing  more.  The  woman  finally  spoke.  "  Did  you 
know  it  was  the  thirteenth  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  father  died  the  ninth.  I  have  often 
counted  it  up."  He  added  shortly  after:  "It's  a  long 
time  —  seven  years  I  My  !  but  it  has  been  a  long  time  !  " 

"  I  have  wondered  if  you  have  thought  so,"  a  pause, 
"too!" 

Their  hearts  were  beating  too  fast  for  thoughts  to  come 
coherently.  The  fever  of  madness  was  upon  them,  and 
numbed  their  wills  so  that  they  could  not  reach  beneath 
the  surface  of  their  consciousnesses  to  find  words  for  their 
emotions.  Then  also  there  was  in  each  a  deadening,  flam 
ing  sense  of  guilt.  Shame  is  a  dumb  passion,  and  these 
two,  who  in  the  fastnesses  of  a  thousand  nights  had  told 
themselves  that  what  they  sought  was  good  and  holy,  now 
found  in  each  other's  actual  presence  a  gripping  at  the 
tongue's  root  that  held  them  dumb. 

"  Yes,  I  —  "  the  man  mumbled,  "  yes,  I  —  I  fancied 
you  understood  that  well  enough." 

"But  you  have  been  busy?  "she  asked;  "very  busy, 
Bob,  and  oh,  I've  been  so  proud  of  all  that  you've  done." 
It  was  the  woman's  tongue  that  first  found  a  sincere  word. 

The  man  replied,  "  Well  —  I  —  I  am  glad  you  have." 


A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  241 

It  seemed  to  the  woman  a  long  time  since  her  father 
had  gone.  Her  conscience  was  making  minutes  out  of 
seconds.  She  said,  "  Don't  you  think  it's  getting  late  ?  " 
but  did  not  rise. 

The  man  looked  at  his  watch  and  answered,  "  Only 
10.34."  He  started  to  rise,  but  she  checked  him  breath 
lessly. 

"Oh,  Bob,  Bob,  sit  down.  This  isn't  enough  for  these 
long  years.  I  had  so  many  things  to  say  to  you."  She 
hesitated  and  cried,  "  Why  are  we  so  stupid  now  —  now 
when  every  second  counts  ?  " 

He  bent  slightly  toward  her  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  So  that's  why  your  lilacs  have  never  bloomed  again." 

She  looked  at  her  chair  arm  and  asked,  "Did  you 
know  they  hadn't  bloomed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Molly,  of  course  I  knew,"  he  answered,  and  then 
went  on :  "  Every  thirteenth  of  April  I  have  slipped 
through  the  fence  and  come  over  here,  rain  or  shine,  at 
night,  to  see  if  they  were  blooming.  But  I  didn't  know 
why  they  never  bloomed  !  " 

The  woman  rose  and  walked  a  step  toward  the  door,  and 
turned  her  head  away.  When  she  spoke  it  wTas  after  a  sob, 
"  Bob,  I  couldn't  bear  it  —  I  just  couldn't  bear  it,  Bob  !  " 

He  groaned  and  put  his  hands  to  his  forehead  and 
rested  his  elbow  on  the  chair  arm.  "  Oh,  Molly,  Molly, 
Molly,"  he  sighed,  "poor,  poor  little  Molly."  After  a 
pause  he  said:  "I  won't  ever  bother  you  again.  It 
doesn't  do  any  good."  A  silence  followed  in  which  the 
woman  turned  her  face  to  him,  tear-stained  and  wretched, 
with  the  seams  of  her  heart  all  torn  open  and  showing 
through  it.  "It  only  hurts,"  the  man  continued,  and 
then  he  groaned  aloud,  "  Oh,  God,  how  it  hurts  !  " 

She  sank  back  into  her  chair  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
arm  farthest  from  him  and  her  body  shook,  but  she  did 
not  speak.  He  stared  at  her  dry-eyed  for  a  minute,  that 
tolled  by  so  slowly  that  he  rose  at  the  end  of  it,  fearful 
that  his  stay  was  indecorously  long. 

"  I  think  I  should  go  now,"  he  said,  as  he  passed  her. 

"Oh,  no  .'"  she  cried.     "Not  yet,  not  just  yet."     She 


242  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

caught  his  arm  and  he  stopped,  as  she  stood  beside  him, 
trembling,  haggard,  staring  at  him  out  of  dead,  mad  eyes. 
There  was  no  colour  in  her  blotched  face,  and  in  the  moon 
light  the  red  rims  of  her  eyes  looked  leaden,  and  her  voice 
was  unsteady.  At  times  it  broke  in  sobbing  croaks,  and 
she  spoke  with  loose  jaws,  as  one  in  great  terror.  "I 
want  you  to  know  —  "  she  paused  at  the  end  of  each  little 
hiccoughed  phrase —  "that  I  have  not  forgotten  — " 
she  caught  her  breath — "that  I  think  of  you  every 
day  —  "  she  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  limp  handkerchief  — 
"  every  da}r  and  every  night,  and  pray  for  you,  though  I 
don't  believe  — "  she  whimpered  as  she  shuddered  — 
"  that  God  cares  much  about  me." 

He  tried  to  stop  her,  and  would  have  gone,  but  she  put 
a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  pleaded :  "  Just  another 
minute.  Oh,  Bob,"  she  cried,  and  her  voice  broke  again, 
"don't  forget  me.  Don't  forget  me.  When  I  was  so 
sick  last  year  —  you  remember,"  she  pleaded,  "I  raved 
in  delirium  a  week."  She  stopped  as  if  afraid  to  go  on, 
then  began  to  shake  as  with  a  palsy.  "  I  raved  of  every 
thing  under  God's  sun,  and  through  it  all,  Bob  —  not  one 
word  of  you.  Oh,  I  knew  that  wouldn't  do."  She 
swayed  upon  his  arm.  "  I  kept  a  little  corner  of  my  soul 
safe  to  guard  you."  She  sank  back  into  her  chair  and 
chattered,  "  Oh,  I  guarded  you." 

She  was  crying  like  a  child.  He  stood  over  her  and 
touched  her  dishevelled  hair  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  and 
said  :  "I  oughtn't  to  stay,  Molly." 

And  she  motioned  him  away  with  her  face  hidden  and 
sobbed,  "No  — I  know  it." 

He  paused  a  moment  on  the  step  before  her  and  then 
said,  "  Good-by,  Molly  —  I'm  going  now."  And  she 
heard  him  walking  down  the  yard  on  the  grass,  so  that  his 
footsteps  would  not  arouse  the  house.  It  seemed  to  them 
both  that  it  was  midnight,  but  time  had  moved  slowly, 
and  when  the  spent,  broken  woman  crept  into  the  house, 
and  groped  her  way  to  her  room,  she  did  not  make  a  light, 
but  slipped  into  bed  without  looking  at  her  scarred, 
shameful  face. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  the  sunshine  of  that  era  of  world-wide  prosperity  in 
the  eighties,  John  Barclay  made  much  hay.  He  spent 
little  time  in  Sycamore  Ridge,  and  his  private  car  might 
be  found  in  Minnesota  to-day  and  at  the  end  of  the  week 
in  California.  As  president  of  the  Corn  Belt  Road  and  as 
controlling  director  in  the  North  Lake  Line,  he  got 
rates  on  other  railroads  for  his  grain  products  that  no  com 
petitor  could  duplicate.  And  when  a  competitor  began  to  / 
grow  beyond  the  small  fry  class,  Barclay  either  bought 
him  out  or  built  a  mill  beside  the  offender  and  crushed 
him  out.  Experts  taught  him  the  value  of  the  chaff  from 
the  grain.  He  had  a  dozen  mills  to  which  he  shipped  the 
refuse  from  his  flour  and  heaven  only  knows  what  else, 
and  turned  the  stuff  into  various  pancake  flours  and  break 
fast  foods.  He  spent  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  in 
advertising — in  a  day  when  large  appropriations  for  ad 
vertising  were  unusual.  And  the  words  "  Barclay's  Best " 
glared  at  the  traveller  from  crags  in  the  Rocky  Mountains 
and  from  the  piers  of  all  the  great  harbour  bridges.  He 
used  Niagara  to  glorify  the  name  of  Barclay,  and  "  Use 
Barclay's  Best"  had  to  be  washed  off  the  statue  of  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty  in  New  York  Harbour.  The  greenish 
brown  eyes  of  the  little  man  were  forever  looking  into  / 
space,  and  when  he  caught  a  dream,  instead  of  letting  ' 
it  go,  he  called  a  stenographer  and  made  it  come  true. 
In  those  days  he  was  beginning  to  realize  that  an  idea 
plus  a  million  dollars  will  become  a  fact  if  a  man  but 
says  the  word,  whereas  the  same  idea  minus  a  million 
remains  a  dream.  The  great  power  of  money  was  slowly 
becoming  part  of  the  man's  consciousness.  During  the 
years  that  were  to  come,  he  came  to  think  that  there 
was  nothing  impossible.  Any  wish  he  had  might  be 
gratifi  3d.  Such  a  consciousness  drives  men  mad. 

243 


244  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

But  in  those  prosperous  days,  while  the  millions  were 
piling  up,  Barclay  kept  his  head.  All  the  world  was  buy 
ing  then,  but  wherever  he  could  Barclay  sold.  He  bought 
only  where  he  had  to,  and  paid  cash  for  what  he  bought. 
He  did  not  owe  a  dollar  for  anything.  He  had  no  equi 
ties  ;  his  titles  were  all  good.  And  as  he  neared  his  forties 
he  believed  that  he  could  sell  what  he  had  at  forced  sale 
for  many  millions.  He  was  supposed  to  be  much  richer 
than  he  was,  but  the  one  thing  that  he  knew  about  it  was 
that  scores  of  other  men  had  more  than  he.  So  he  kept  star 
ing  into  space  and  pressing  the  button  for  his  stenographer, 
and  at  night  wherever  his  work  found  him,  whether  in 
Boston  or  in  Chicago  or  in  San  Francisco,  he  hunted  up 
the  place  where  he  could  hear  the  best  music,  and  sat  lis 
tening  with  his  eyes  closed.  He  always  kept  his  note-book 
in  his  hand,  when  Jane  was  not  with  him,  and  when  an 
idea  came  to  him  inspired  by  the  music,  he  jotted  it  down, 
and  the  next  clay,  if  it  stood  the  test  of  a  night's  sleep, 
he  turned  the  idea  into  an  event. 

.  In  planning  his  work  he  was  ruthless.  He  learned 
**  that  by  bribing  men  in  the  operating  department  of  any 
railroad  he  could  find  out  what  his  competitors  were  doing. 
And  in  the  main  offices  of  the  National  Provisions  Com 
pany  two  rooms  full  of  clerks  were  devoted  to  considering 
the  duplicate  way-bills  of  every  car  of  flour  or  grain  or 
grain  product  not  shipped  by  the  Barclay  companies. 
Thus  he  was  able  to  delay  the  cars  of  his  competitors, 
and  get  his  own  cars  through  on  time.  Thus  he  was  able 
to  bribe  buyers  in  wholesale  establishments  to  push  his 
products.  And  with  Lige  Bemis  manipulating  the  rail 
road  and  judiciary  committees  in  the  legislatures  of  ten 
states,  no  laws  were  enacted  which  might  hamper  Barclay's 
activities. 

"  Do  you  know,  Lucy,"  said  General  Ward  to  his  wife 
one  night  when  they  were  discussing  Barclay  and  his  ways 
and  works,  "  sometimes  I  think  that  what  that  boy  saw 
at  Wilson's  Creek,  —  the  horrible  bloodshed,  the  deadly 
spectacle  of  human  suffering  at  the  hospital  wagon,  some 
way  blinded  his  soul's  eye  to  right  and  wrong.  It  was  all 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  245 

a  man  could  stand ;  the  picture  must  have  seared  the  boy's 
heart  like  a  fire." 

Mrs.  Ward,  who  was  mending  little  clothes  in  the  light 
of  the  dining-room  'lamp,  put  down  her  work  a  moment 
,  and  said:  " I  have  always  thought  the  colonel  had  some 
such  idea.  For  once  when  he  was  speaking  of  the  way 
John  stole  that  wheat  land,  he  said,  '  Well,  poor  John,  he 
got  a  wound  at  Wilson's  Creek  that  never  will  heal,'  and 
when  I  asked  if  he  meant  his  foot,  the  colonel  smiled  like 
a  woman  and  said  gently,  4  No,  Miss  Lucy,  not  there  — 
not  there  at  all ;  in  his  heart,  my  dear,  in  his  heart  I ' 

And  the  general's  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  a  mother  wan 
dering  toward  a  boy  of  nine  sleeping,  tired  out,  on  a  couch 
near  by;  he  was  a  little  boy  with  dark  hair,  and  red 
tanned  cheeks,  and  his  mouth  —  such  a  soft  innocent 
mouth  —  curved  prettily,  like  the  lips  of  children  in  old 
pictures,  and  as  he  slept  he  smiled,  and  the  general,  meeting 
the  mother's  eyes  coming  back  from  the  little  face,  wiped 
his  glasses  and  nodded  his  head  in  understanding;  in  a 
moment  they  both  rose  and  stood  hand  in  hand  over  their 
child,  and  the  mother  said  in  a  trembling  voice,  "And  his 
mother  prayed  for  him,  too  —  she  has  told  me  so  —  so  many 
times." 

But  the  people  of  Sycamore  Ridge  and  of  the  Missis 
sippi  Valley  did  not  indulge  in  any  fine  speculations  upon 
the  meaning  of  life  when  they  thought  of  John  Barclay. 
He  had  become  considerable  of  a  figure  in  the  world,  and 
the  Middle  West  was  proud  of  him.  Eor  those  were  the 
days  of  tin  cornices,  false  fronts,  vain  pretences,  and  bor 
rowed  plumes  bought  with  borrowed  money.  Other 
people's  capital  was  easy  to  get,  and  every  one  was  rich. 
Debt  was  regarded  as  an  evidence  of  prosperity,  and  the 
town  ran  mad  with  the  rest  of  the  country.  It  is  not 
strange  then  that  Mrs.  Watts  McHurdie,  she  who  for  four 
years  during  the  war  dispensed  "beefsteak  —  ham  and 
eggs — breakfast  bacon  —  tea  —  coffee  —  iced  tea  —  or — . 
milk"  at  the  Thayer  House,  and  for  ten  years  there 
after  sold  dry-goods  and  kept  books  at  Dorman's  store, 
should  have  become  tainted  with  the  infection  of  the 


246  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

times.  But  it  is  strange  that  she  could  have  inoculated 
so  sane  a  little  man  as  Watts.  Still,  there  were  Delilah 
and  Samson,  and  of  course  Samson  was  a  much  larger  man 
than  Watts,  and  Nellie  McHurdie  was  considerably  larger 
than  Delilah ;  and  you  never  can  tell  about  those  things, 
anyway.  Also  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Nellie  Mc 
Hurdie  since  her  marriage  had  become  Grand  Preceptress 
in  one  lodge,  Worthy  Matron  in  another,  Senior  Vice 
Commander  in  a  third,  and  Worshipful  Benefactress  in 
a  fourth,  to  say  nothing  of  positions  as  corresponding 
secretary,  delegate  to  the  state  convention,  Keeper  of 
the  Records  and  Seals,  Scribe,  —  and  perhaps  Pharisee, 
—  in  half  a  dozen  others,  all  in  the  interests  of  her  hus 
band's  political  future ;  and  with  such  obvious  devotion 
before  him,  it  is  small  wonder  after  all  that  he  succumbed. 
But  he  would  not  run  for  office.  He  had  trouble  every 
spring  persuading  her,  but  he  always  did  persuade  her, 
that  this  wasn't  his  year,  that  conditions  were  wrong,  and 
that  next  year  probably  would  be  better.  But  he  allowed 
her  to  call  their  home  "  The  Bivouac,"  and  have  the  name 
cut  in  stone  letters  on  the  horse-block ;  and  he  sat  by 
meekly  for  many  long  years  at  lodges,  at  church  entertain 
ments,  at  high  school  commencement  exercises,  at  public 
gatherings  of  every  sort,  and  heard  her  sing  a  medley  of 
American  patriotic  songs  which  wound  up  with  the  song 
that  made  him  famous.  It  was  five  drinks  in  Jake  Dolan 
that  stopped  the  medley,  when  the  drinks  aforesaid  in 
spired  him  to  rise  grandly  from  his  chair  at  the  front  of 
the  hall  at  an  installation  of  officers  of  Henry  Schnitzler 
Post  of  the  Grand  Army,  and  stalk  majestically  out  of  the 
room,  while  the  singing  was  in  progress,  saying  as  he 
turned  back  at  the  door,  before  thumping  heavily  down 
the  stairs,  "  Well,  I'm  getting  pretty  damn  tired  of  that  1 " 
Mrs.  McHurdie  insisted  that  Watts  should  whip  Dolan, 
and  it  is  possible  that  at  home  that  night  Watts  did  smite 
his  breast  and  shake  his  head  fiercely,  for  in  the  morning 
the  neighbours  saw  Mrs.  McHurdie  walk  to  the  gate  with 
him,  talking  earnestly  and  holding  his  arm  as  if  to  restrain 
him ;  moreover,  when  Watts  had  turned  the  corner  of 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  247 

Lincoln  Avenue  and  had  disappeared  into  Main  Street, 
she  hurried  over  to  the  Culpeppers'  to  have  the  colonel 
warn  Dolan  that  Watts  was  a  dangerous  man.  But  when 
Dolan,  sober,  walked  into  the  harness  shop  that  afternoon 
to  apologize,  the  little  harness  maker  came  down  the  aisle 
of  saddles  in  his  shop  blinking  over  his  spectacles  and  with 
his  hand  to  his  mouth  to  strangle  a  smile,  and  before 
Dolan  could  speak,  Watts  said,  "  So  am  I  —  Jake  Dolan 
—  so  am  I ;  but  if  you  ever  do  that  again,  I'll  have  to  kill 
you." 

It  happened  in  the  middle  eighties  —  maybe  a  year 
before  the  college  was  opened  —  maybe  a  year  after, 
though  Gabriel  Carnine,  talking  of  it  some  twenty  years 
later,  insists  that  it  happened  two  years  after  the  opening 
of  the  college.  But  no  one  ever  has  mentioned  the  matter 
to  Watts,  so  the  exact  date  may  not  be  recorded,  though 
it  is  an  important  date  in  the  uses  of  this  narrative,  as  will 
be  seen  later.  All  agree  — the  colonel,  the  general,  Dolan, 
Fernald,  and  perhaps  two  dozen  old  soldiers  who  were  at 
the  railroad  station  waiting  for  the  train  to  take  them  to 
the  National  Encampment  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the 
Republic,  —  that  it  was  a  fine  morning  in  September.  Of 
course  John  Barclay  contributed  the  band.  He  afterwards 
confessed  to  that,  explaining  that  Nellie  had  told  him 
that  Watts  never  had  received  the  attention  he  should 
receive  either  in  the  town  or  the  state  or  the  nation,  and 
so  long  as  Watts  was  a  National  Delegate  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  and  so  long  as  she  had  twice  been  voted  for  as 
National  President  of  the  Ladies'  Aid,  and  might  get  it 
this  time,  the  band  would  be,  as  she  put  it,  "  so  nice  to  take 
along";  and  as  John  never  forgot  the  fact  that  Nellie  asked 
him  to  sing  at  her  wedding,  he  hired  the  band.  Thus  are 
we  bound  to  our  past.  But  the  band  was  not  what  caused 
the  comrades  to  gasp,  though  its  going  was  a  surprise. 
And  when  they  heard  it  turn  into  Main  Street  far  up  by 
Lincoln  Avenue,  playing  the  good  old  tune  that  the  town 
loved  for  Watts'  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  the  time  and  the 
place  and  the  heroic  deeds  it  celebrated,  —  when  they 
heard  the  band,  the  colonel  asked  the  general,  "  Where's 


248  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Watts  ? "  and  they  suspected  that  the  band  might  be 
bringing  him  to  the  depot. 

Heaven  knows  the  town  had  bought  uniforms  and 
new  horns  for  the  band  often  enough  for  it  to  do  some 
thing  public-spirited  once  in  a  while  without  being  paid 
for  it.  So  the  band  did  not  come  to  the  town  as  a  shock 
in  and  of  itself.  Neither  for  that  matter  did  the  hack  — 
the  new  glistening  silver-mounted  hack,  with  the  bright 
spick-and-span  hearse  harness  on  the  horses ;  in  those 
bustling  days  a  quarter  was  nothing,  and  you  can  ride  all 
over  the  Ridge  for  a  quarter  ;  so  when  the  comrades  at 
the  depot,  in  their  blue  soldiers'  clothes,  their  campaign 
hats,  and  their  delegates'  badges,  saw  the  band  followed 
by  the  hack,  they  were  of  course  interested,  but  that  was 
all.  And  when  some  of  the  far-sighted  ones  observed  that 
the  top  of  the  hack  was  spread  back  royally,  they  com 
mented  upon  the  display  of  pomp,  but  the  comment  was 
not  extraordinary.  But  when  from  the  street,  as  the 
band  stopped,  there  came  cheers  from  the  people,  the  boys 
at  the  station  felt  that  something  unusual  was  about  to 
come  to  them.  So  they  watched  the  band  march  down 
the  long  sheet-iron-covered  station  walk,  and  the  hack 
move  along  beside  the  band  boys  ;  and  the  poet's  com 
rades-in-arms  saw  him  sitting  beside  the  poet's  wife, — 
the  two  in  solemn  state.  And  then  the  old  boys  beheld 
Watts  McHurdie,  —  little  Watts  McHurclie,  with  his 
grizzled  beard  combed,  with  his  goltl-rimmed  Sunday 
glasses  far  down  on  his  nose  so  that  he  could  see  over 
them,  and  —  wonder  of  wonders,  they  saw  a  high  shiny 
new  silk  hat  wobbling  over  his  modest  head. 

He  stumbled  out  of  the  open  hack  with  his  hand  on  the 
great  stiff  awkward  thing,  obviously  afraid  it  would  fall 
oif,  and  she  that  was  Nellie  Logan,  late  of  the  Thayer 
House  and  still  later  of  Dorman's  store,  and  later  still  most 
worshipful,  most  potent,  most  gorgeous  and  most  radiant 
archangel  of  seven  secret  and  mysterious  covenants,  con 
claves,  and  inner  temples,  stood  beaming  at  the  pitiful 
sight,  clearly  proud  of  her  shameless  achievement.  Watts, 
putting  his  hand  to  his  mouth  to  cover  his  smile,  grabbed 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  249 

the  shiny  thing  again  as  he  nodded  cautiously  at  the  crowd. 
Then  he  followed  her  meekly  to  the  women's  waiting  room, 
where  the  wives  and  sisters  of  the  comrades  were  assembled 
—  and  they,  less  punctilious  than  the  men,  burst  forth 
with  a  scream  of  joy,  and  the  agony  was  over. 

And  thus  Watts  McHurdie  went  to  his  greatest  earthly 

flory.  Th 3  delegation  from  the  Ridge,  with  the  band,  had 
ohn  Barclay's  private  car ;  that  was  another  surprise 
which  Mrs.  McHurdie  arranged,  and  when  they  got 
to  Washington,  where  the  National  Encampment  was, 
opinions  differ  as  to  when  Watts  McHurdie  had  his 
high  tide  of  happiness.  The  colonel  says  that  it  was  in 
the  great  convention,  where  the  Sycamore  Ridge  band  sat 
in  front  of  the  stage,  and  where  Watts  stood  in  front  of 
the  band  and  led  the  great  throng,  —  beginning  with  his 
cracked  little  heady  tenor,  and  in  an  instant  losing  it  in 
the  awful  diapason  of  ten  thousand  voices  singing  his  old 
song  with  him  ;  and  where,  when  it  was  over,  General 
Grant  came  down  the  platform,  making  his  way  rather 
clumsily  among  the  chairs,  and  at  last  in  front  of  the 
whole  world  grasped  Watts  McHurdie's  hands,  and  the 
two  little  men,  embarrassed  by  the  formality  of  it  all, 
stood  for  a  few  seconds  looking  at  each  other  with  tears 
glistening  in  their  speaking  eyes. 

But  Jake  Dolan,  who  knows  something  of  human  nature, 
does  not  hold  to  the  colonel's  view  about  the  moment  of 
McHurdie's  greatest  joy.  "We  were  filing  down  the 
Avenue  again,  thousands  and  ten  thousands  of  us,  as  we 
filed  past  the  White  House  nearly  twenty  years  before. 
And  the  Sycamore  Ridge  band  was  cramming  its  luugs  into 
the  old  tune,  when  up  on  the  reviewing  stand,  beside  all 
the  big  bugs  and  with  the  President  there  himself,  stood 
little  Watts,  plug  hat  in  hand,  bowing  to  the  boys.  'Twas 
a  lovely  sight,  and  he  had  been  there  for  two  mortal  hours 
before  we  boys  got  down —  there  was  the  Kansas  boys  and 
the  Iowa  boys  and  some  from  Missouri,  carrying  the  old 
flag  we  fought  under  at  Wilson's  Creek.  Watts  saw  us 
down  the  street  and  heard  the  old  band  play  ;  a  dozen 
other  bands  had  played  that  tune  that  day  ;  but  Billy 


250  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Dorman's  tuba  had  its  own  kind  of  a  rag  in  it,  and  Watts 
knew  it.  I  seen  him  a-waving  his  hat  at  the  boys,  almost 
as  soon  as  they  saw  him,  and  as  the  band  came  nearer  and 
nearer  I  saw  the  little  man's  face  begin  to  crack,  and  as  he 
looked  down  the  line  and  saw  them  Kansas  arid  Iowa 
soldiers,  I  seen  him  give  one  whoop,  and  throw  that  plug 
hat  hell  wards  over  the  crowd  and  jump  down  from  that 
band  stand  like  a  wild  man  and  make  for  the  gang.  He 
was  blubbering  like  a  calf  when  he  caught  step  with  me, 
and  he  yelled  so  as  to  reach  my  ears  above  the  roar  of  the 
crowds  and  the  blatting  of  the  bands  —  yelled  with  his 
voice  ripped  to  shreds  that  fluttered  out  ragged  from  the 
torn  bosom  of  him,  4  Jake  —  Jake  —  how  I  would  like 
to  get  drunk  — just  this  once !  '  And  we  went  on  down  the 
avenue  together  —  him  bareheaded,  hay-footing  and  straw- 
footing  it  the  same  as  in  the  old  days." 

Jake  always  paused  at  this  point  and  shook  his  head 
sorrowfully,  and  then  continued  dolefully  :  "But  'twas  no 
use  ;  he  was  caught  and  took  away ;  some  says  it  was  to 
see  the  pictures  in  the  White  House,  and  some  says  it  was 
to  a  reception  given  by  the  Relief  Corps  to  the  officers 
elect  of  the  Ladies'  Aid,  where  he  was  pawed  over  by  a 
lot  of  old  girls  who  says,  '  Yes,  I'm  so  glad  —  what  name 
please  —  oh,  —  McHurdie,  surely  not  the  McHurdie ;  O  dear 
me  —  Sister  Mclntire,  come  right  here,  this  is  the  McHur 
die  —  you  know  I  sang  your  song  when  I  was  a  little  girl  * 
—  which  was  a  lie,  unless  Watts  wrote  it  for  the  Mexican 
War,  and  he  didn't.  And  then  some  one  else  comes  wad 
dling  up  and  says,  'O  dear  me,  Mr.  McHurdie  —  you 
don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  the  author  of  "Home, 
Sweet  Home," '  and  Watts  blinks  his  eyes  and  pleads  not 
guilty ;  and  she  saj^s,  4  O  dear,  excuse  the  mistake  ;  well, 
I'm  sure  you  wrote  something  ?  '  And  Watts,  being  sick 
of  love,  as  Solomon  says  in  his  justly  celebrated  and  popu 
lar  song,  Watts  looks  through  his  Sunday  glasses  and 
doesn't  see  a  blame  thing,  and  smiles  and  says  calmly, 
4  No,  madam,  you  mistake —  I  am  a  simple  harness  maker.' 
And  she  sidles  off  looking  puzzled,  to  make  room  for  the 
one  from  Massachusetts,  who  stares  at  him  through  her 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  251 

glasses  and  says, '  So  j^ou're  Watts  McHurdie  —  who  wrote 
the  — '  '  The  same,  madam,'  says  Watts,  courting  favour. 
4 Well,'  says  the  high-browed  one,  'well  —  you  are  not  at 
all  what  I  imagined.'  And  'Neither  are  you,  madam,' 
returns  Watts,  as  sweet  as  a  dill  pickle;  and  she  goes 
away  to  think  it  over  and  wonder  if  he  meant  it  that  way. 
No  —  that's  where  Nellie  made  her  mistake.  It  wouldn't 
have  hurt  him  —  just  once.  But  what's  done's  done,  and 
can't  be  undone,  as  the  man  said  when  he  fished  his  wife 
out  of  the  lard  vat." 

Now  this  all  seems  a  long  way  from  John  Barclay  — 
the  hero  of  this  romance.  Yet  the  departure  of  Watts 
McHurdie  for  his  scene  of  glory  was  on  the  same  day  that 
a  most  important  thing  happened  in  the  lives  of  Bob 
Hendricks  and  Molly  Brownwell.  That  day  Bob  Hen- 
dricks  walked  one  end  of  the  station  platform  alone.  The 
east-bound  train  was  half  an  hour  late,  and  while  the 
veterans  were  teasing  Watts  and  the  women  railing  at 
Mrs.  McHurdie,  Hendricks  discovered  that  it  was  one 
hundred  and  seventy-eight  steps  from  one  end  of  the  walk 
to  the  other,  and  that  to  go  entirely  around  the  building 
made  the  distance  fifty-four  steps  more.  It  was  almost 
train  time  before  Adrian  Brownwell  arrived.  When  the 
dapper  little  chap  came  with  his  bright  crimson  carnation, 
and  his  flashing  red  necktie,  and  his  inveterate  gloves  and 
cane,  Hendricks  came  only  close  enough  to  him  to  smell 
the  perfume  on  the  man's  clothes,  and  to  nod  to  him. 
But  when  Hendricks  found  that  the  man  was  going  with 
the  Culpeppers  as  far  as  Cleveland,  as  he  told  the  entire 
depot  platform,  "  to  report  the  trip,"  Hendricks  sat  on  a 
baggage  truck  beside  the  depot,  and  considered  many 
things.  As  he  was  sitting  there  Dolan  came  up,  out  of 
breath,  and  fearful  he  should  be  late. 

"  How  long  will  you  be  gone,  Jake?  "  asked  Hendricks. 

"The  matter  of  a  week  or  ten  days,  maybe,"  answered 
Dolan. 

"  Well,  Jake,"  said  Hendricks,  looking  at  Dolan  with 
serious  eyes,  yet  rather  abstractedly,  "  I  am  thinking  of 
taking  a  long  trip  —  to  be  gone  a  long  time  —  I  don't 


252  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

know  exactly  how  long.  I  may  not  go  at  all  —  I  haven't 
said  anything  to  the  boys  in  the  store  or  the  bank  or  out 
at  the  shop  about  it;  it  isn't  altogether  settled  —  as  yet.'" 
He  paused  while  a  switch  engine  clanged  by  and  the  crowd 
surged  out  of  the  depot,  and  ebbed  back  again  into  their 
seats.  "  Did  you  deliver  my  note  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dolan,  "  just  as  you  said.  That's  what 
made  me  a  little  late." 

"  To  the  lady  herself  ?  " 

"  To  the  lady  herself,"  repeated  Dolan. 

"All  right,"  acquiesced  Hendricks.  "Now,  Jake,  if  I 
give  it  out  that  I'm  going  away  on  a  trip,  there'll  be  a  lot 
of  pulling  and  hauling  and  fussing  around  in  the  bank 
and  in  the  store  and  at  the  shop  and  —  every  place,  and 
then  I  may  not  go.  So  I've  gone  over  every  concern  care 
fully  during  the  past  week,  and  have  set  down  what  ought 
to  be  done  in  case  I'm  gone.  I  didn't  tell  my  sister  even 
—  she's  so  nervous.  And,  Jake,  I  won't  tell  any  one. 
But  if,  when  you  get  back  from  Washington,  I'm  not  here, 
I'm  going  to  leave  this  key  with  you.  Tell  the  boys  at 
the  bank  that  it  will  open  my  tin  box,  and  in  the  tin  box 
they'll  find  some  instructions  about  things."  He  smiled, 
a,nd  Dolan  assented.  Hendricks  uncoiled  his  legs  from 
the  truck,  and  began  to  get  down.  "  I  won't  mix  up  with 
the  old  folks,  I  guess,  Jake.  They  have  their  own  affairs, 
and  I'm  tired.  I  worked  all  last  night,"  he  added.  He 
held  out  his  hand  to  Dolan  and  said,  "  Well,  good-by, 
Jake  —  have  a  good  time." 

The  elder  man  had  walked  away  a  few  steps  when  Hen 
dricks  called  him  back,  and  fumbling  in  his  pockets,  said  : 
"  Well,  Jake,  I  certainly  am  a  fool ;  here  — "  he  pulled 
an  envelope  marked  "  Dolan "  from  his  inside  pocket  — 
"  Jake,  I  was  in  the  bank  this  morning,  and  I  found  a 
picture  for  you.  Take  it  and  have  a  good  time.  It's  a 
long  time  till  pension  day — so  long." 

The  Irishman  peeped  at  the  bill  and  grinned  as  he  said, 
"  Them  holy  pictures  from  the  bank,  my  boy,  have  power 
ful  healing  qualities."  And  he  marched  off  with  joy  in 
his  carriage. 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  253 

Hendricks  then  resumed  his  tramp ;  up  and  down  the 
long  platform  he  went,  stepping  on  cracks  one  way,  and 
avoiding  cracks  the  next,  thinking  it  all  out.  He  tried 
to  remember  if  he  had  been  unfair  to  any  one ;  if  he  had 
left  any  ragged  edges ;  if  he  had  taken  a  penny  more  than 
his  honest  due.  The  letter  to  the  county  treasurer,  return 
ing  the  money  his  father  had  taken,  was  on  top  of  the  pile 
of  papers  in  his  tin  box  at  the  bank.  He  had  finally  con 
cluded,  that  when  everything  else  was  known,  that  would 
not  add  much  to  his  disgrace.  And  then  it  would  be  paid, 
and  that  page  with  the  forged  entry  would  not  always  be 
in  his  mind.  There  were  deeds,  each  witnessed  by  a  differ 
ent  notary,  so  that  the  town  would  not  gossip  before  he 
went,  transferring  all  of  his  real  estate  to  his  sister,  and 
the  stock  he  had  sold  to  the  bank  was  transferred,  and 
the  records  all  in  the  box ;  then  he  went  over  the  prices 
again  at  which  he  had  disposed  of  his  holdings  to  the 
bank,  and  he  was  sure  he  had  made  good  bargains  in 
every  case  for  the  bank.  So  it  was  all  fair,  he  argued  for 
the  thousandth  time  —  he  was  all  square  with  the  world. 
He  had  left  a  deposit  subject  to  his  check  of  twenty  thou 
sand  dollars  —  that  ought  to  do  until  they  could  get  on 
their  feet  somewhere ;  and  it  was  all  his,  he  said  to  him 
self —  all  his,  and  no  one's  business. 

And  when  he  thought  of  the  other  part,  the  voice  of 
Adrian  Brownwell  saying,  "Well,  come  on,  old  lady,  we 
must  be  going,"  rose  in  his  consciousness.  It  was  not 
so  much  Brownwell's  words,  as  his  air  of  patronage  and 
possession ;  it  was  cheerful  enough,  quite  gay  in  fact, 
but  Hendricks  asked  himself  a  hundred  times  why  the 
man  didn't  whistle  for  her,  and  clamp  a  steel  collar 
about  her  neck.  He  wondered  cynically  if  at  the  bottom 
of  Brownwell's  heart,  he  would  not  rather  have  the 
check  for  twelve  thousand  dollars  which  Hendricks  had 
left  for  Colonel  Culpepper,  to  pay  off  the  Brownwell 
note,  than  to  have  his  wife.  For  seven  years  the  colonel 
had  been  cheerfully  neglecting  it,  and  now  Hendricks 
knew  that  Adrian  was  troubling  him  about  the  old 
debt. 


254  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

As  he  rounded  the  depot  for  the  tenth  time  he  got  back 
to  their  last  meeting.  There  stood  General  Ward  with 
his  arm  about  the  girlish  waist  of  Mrs.  Ward,  the  mother 
of  seven.  There  was  John  Barclay  with  Jane  beside  him, 
and  they  were  holding  hands  like  lovers.  The  Ward 
children  were  running  like  rabbits  over  the  broad  lawn 
under  the  elms,  and  there,  talking  to  the  wide,  wide 
world,  was  Adrian  Brownwell,  propounding  the  phi 
losophy  of  the  Banner,  arid  quoting  from  last  week's 
editorials.  And  there  sat  Bob  and  Molly  by  the  flower 
bed  that  bordered  the  porch. 

"I  am  going  to  the  city  to  hear  Gilmore,"  he  said. 
That  was  simple  enough,  and  her  sigh  had  no  meaning 
either.  It  was  just  a  weary  little  sigh,  such  as  women 
sometimes' bring  forth  when  they  decide  to  say  something 
else.  So  she  had  said :  "  I'll  be  all  alone  next  week.  I 
think  I'll  visit  Jane  — if  she's  in  town." 

Then  something  throbbed  in  his  brain  and  made  him 
say :  — 

"  So  you'd  like  to  hear  Gilmore,  too  ?  " 

She  coloured  and  was  silent,  and  the  pulse  of  madness 
that  was  beating  in  her  made  her  answer  :  — 

"  Oh — I  can't — you  know  the  folks  are  going  to  Wash 
ington  to  the  encampment,  and  Adrian  is  going  as  far  as 
Cleveland  with  the  delegation  to  write  it  up." 

An  impulse  loosened  his  tongue,  and  he  asked :  — 

"  Why  not  ?  Come  on.  If  you  don't  know  any  one  up 
there,  go  to  the  Fifth  Avenue ;  it's  all  right,  and  I'll  get 
tickets,  and  we'll  go  every  night  and  both  matinees.  Come 
on!  "  he  urged. 

She  was  aflame  and  could  not  think.  "  Oh  —  don't,  Bob, 
don't  —  not  now.  Please  don't,"  she  begged,  in  as  low  a 
tone  as  she  dared  to  use. 

Adrian  was  thundering  on  about  the  tariff,  and  the 
general  was  wrangling  with  him.  The  Barclays  were 
talking  to  themselves,  and  the  children  were  clattering 
about  underfoot,  and  in  the  trees  overhead.  Bob's  eyes 
and  Molly's  met,  and  the  man  shuddered  at  what  he  saw 
of  pathos  and  yearning,  and  he  said:  "Well,  why  not? 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  255 

It's  no  worse  to  go  than  to  want  to  go.  What's  wrong 
about  it  —  Molly,  do  you  think  —  " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  Adrian  had  ceased 
talking,  and  Molly,  seeing  his  jealous  eyes  upon  her,  rose 
and  moved  away.  But  before  they  left  that  night  she 
found  occasion  to  say,  u  I've  been  thinking  about  it,  Bob, 
and  maybe  I  will." 

In  the  year  that  had  passed  since  Hendricks  had  left 
her  sobbing  in  the  chair  on  the  porch  of  the  Culpepper 
home,  a  current  between  them  had  been  reestablished, 
and  was  fed  by  the  chance  passing  in  a  store,  a  smile 
at  a  reception,  a  good  morning  on  the  street,  and  the 
current  was  pulsing  through  their  veins  night  and  day. 
But  that  fine  September  morning,  as  she  stood  on  the 
veranda  of  her  home  with  a  dust-cap  on  her  head, 
cleaning  up  the  litter  her  parents  had  made  in  pack 
ing,  she  was  not  ready  for  what  rushed  into  her  soul 
from  the  letter  Dolan  left  her,  as  he  hurried  away  to 
overtake  the  band  that  was  turning  from  Lincoln  Avenue 
into  Main  Street.  She  sat  in  a  chair  to  read  it,  and  for  a 
moment  after  she  had  read  it,  she  held  it  open  in  her  lap 
and  gazed  at  the  sunlight  mottling  the  blue  grass  before 
her,  through  the  elm  trees.  Her  lips  were  parted  and  her 
eyes  wide,  and  she  breathed  slowly.  The  tune  the  band 
was  playing  —  McHurdie's  song  —  sank  into  her  memory 
there  that  day  so  that  it  always  brought  back  the  mottled 
sunshine,  the  flowers  blooming  along  the  walk,  and  the 
song  of  a  robin  from  a  lilac  bush  near  by.  She  folded  the 
letter  carefully,  and  put  it  inside  her  dress,  and  then  mov 
ing  mechanically,  took  it  out  and  read  it  again:  — 

"  MY  DARLING,  MY  DARLING  :  There  is  no  use  struggling  any  more. 
You  must  come.  I  will  meet  you  in  the  city  at  the  morning  train, 
the  one  that  leaves  the  Ridge  here  at  2.35  A.M.  We  can  go  to  the 
parks  to-morrow  and  be  alone  and  talk  it  all  out,  before  the  concert  — 
and  then  —  oh,  Molly,  core  of  my  soul,  heart  of  my  heart,  why  should 
we  ever  come  back !  BOB." 

All  that  she  could  feel  as  she  sat  there  motionless  was 
a  crashing  "  no."  The-  thing  seemed  to  drive  her  mad 
by  its  insistence  —  a  horrible  racking  thing  that  all  but 


255  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

shook  her,  and  she  chattered  at  it:  "Why  not?  Why 
not?  Why  not?"  But  the  "no"  kept  roaring  through 
her  mind,  and  as  she  heard  the  servant  rattling  the  break 
fast  dishes  in  the  house,  the  woman  shivered  out  of  sight 
and  ran  to  her  room.  She  fell  on  her  knees  to  pray, 
but  all  she  could  pray  was,  "  O  God.  O  God,  O  God, 
help  me!  "  and  to  that  prayer,  as  she  said  it,  the  something 
in  her  heart  kept  gibbering,  "Why  not?  Why  not?  Why 
not?"  From  an  old  box  hidden  in  a  closet  opening  out 
of  her  mother's  room  she  took  Bob  Hendricks'  picture, 
—  the  faded  picture  of  a  boy  of  twenty,  —  and  holding 
it  close  to  her  breast,  stared  open-lipped  into  the  heart 
of  an  elm  tree- top.  The  whistle  of  the  train  brought 
her  back  to  her  real  world.  She  rose  and  looked  at  her 
self  in  the  mirror,  at  the  unromantic  face  with  its  lines 
showing  faintly  around  her  eyes,  grown  quiet  during  the 
dozen  years  that  had  settled  her  fluffy  hair  into  sedate 
waves.  She  smiled  at  the  changes  of  the  years  and 
shook  her  heacl,  and  got  a  grip  on  her  normal  conscious 
ness,  and  after  putting  away  the  picture  and  closing  the 
box,  she  went  downstairs  to  finish  her  work. 

On  the  stairs  she  felt  sure  of  herself,  and  set  about  to 
plan  for  the  next  day,  and  then  the  tumult  began,  between 
the  "  110  "  and  her  soul.  In  a  few  minutes  as  she  worked 
the  " no "  conquered,  and  she  said,  "Bob's  crazy."  She 
repeated  it  many  times,  and  found  as  she  repeated  it  that 
it  was  mechanical  and  that  her  soul  was  aching  again.  So 
the  morning  wore  away  ;  she  gossiped  with  the  servant  a 
moment ;  a  neighbour  came  in  on  an  errand;  and  she  dressed 
to  go  down  town.  As  she  went  out  of  the  gate,  she  won 
dered  where  she  would  be  that  hour  the  next  day,  and  then 
the  struggle  began  again.  Moreover,  she  bought  some  new 
gloves  — travelling  gloves  to  match  her  gray  dress. 

In  the  afternoon  she  and  Jane  Barclay  sat  on  the  wide 
porch  of  the  Barclay  home.  "  Gilmore's  going  to  be  in 
the  city  all  this  week,"  said  Jane,  biting  a  thread  in  her 
sewing. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  replied  Molly.  "  I  should  so  like  to  hear  him. 
It's  so  poky  up  at  the  house." 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  257 

"  Why  don't  you  ?  "  inquired  Jane.  "  Get  on  the  train 
and  go  on  up." 

"  Do  you  suppose  it  would  be  all  right  ? "  replied 
Molly. 

"  Why,  of  course,  girl !  Aren't  you  a  married  woman  of 
lawful  age  ?  I  would  if  I  wanted  to." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Molly  replied  thoughtfully,  "  I 
have  half  a  notion  to  —  really  !  " 

But  as  she  walked  home,  she  decided  not  to  do  it.  Peo 
ple  from  the  Ridge  might  be  there,  and  they  wouldn't  un 
derstand,  and  her  finger-tips  chilled  at  the  memory  of 
Adrian  Brownwell's  jealous  eyes.  So  as  she  ate  supper, 
she  went  over  the  dresses  she  had  that  were  available. 
And  at  bedtime  she  gave  the  whole  plan  up  and  went  up 
stairs  humming  a  Marguerite "  as  happily  as  the  thrush 
that  sang  in  the  lilacs  that  morning.  As  she  undressed 
the  note  fell  to  the  floor.  When  she  picked  it  up,  the 
flash  of  passion  came  tearing  through  her  heart,  and  the 
"  no  "  crashed  in  her  ears  again,  and  all  the,day's  struggle 
was  for  nothing.  So  she  went  to  bed,  resolved  not  to  go. 
But  she  stared  through  the  window  into  the  night,  and  of 
a  sudden  a  resolve  came  to  her  to  go,  and  have  one  fair  day 
with  Hendricks — to  talk  it  all  out  forever,  and  then  to 
come  home,  and  she  rose  from  her  bed  and  tiptoed  through 
the  house  packing  a  valise.'  She  left  a  note  in  the  kitchen 
for  the  servant,  saying  that  she  would  be  back  for  dinner 
the  next  evening,  and  when  she  struck  a  match  in  the  front 
hall  to  see  what  time  it  was,  she  fovnd  that  it  was  only 
one  o'clock.  For  an  hour  she  sat  in  the  chill  September 
air  on  the  veranda,  thinking  it  all  over —  what  she  would 
say;  how  they  would  meet  and  part;  and  over  and  over 
again  she  told  herself  that  she  was  doing  the  sensible  thing. 
As  the  clock  struck  two  she  picked  up  her  valise  —  it  was 
heavier  than  she  thought,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  put  in  many  unnecessary  things,  and  that  she  had  time 
to  lighten  it.  But  she  stopped  a  moment  only,  and  then 
walked  to  the  gate  and  down  a  side  street  to  the  station. 
It  was  2.20  when  she  arrived,  and  the  train  was  marked 
on  the  blackboard  by  the  ticket  window  on  time.  She 


258  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

kept  telling  herself  that  it  was  best  to  have  it  out ;  that 
she  would  come  right  back ;  but  she  remembered  her 
heavy  valise,  and  again  the  warning  "  no  "  roared  through 
her  soul.  She  walked  up  and  down  the  long  platform, 
and  felt  the  presence  of  Bob  Hendricks  strong  and  com 
pelling  ;  she  knew  he  had  been  there  that  very  day,  and 
wondered  where  he  sat.  Then  she  thought  perhaps  she 
would  do  better  not  to  go.  She  looked  into  the  men's 
waiting  room,  and  it  was  empty  save  for  one  man ;  his 
back  was  turned  to  her,  but  she  recognized  Lige  Bemis. 
A  tremble  of  guilt  racked  and  weakened  her.  And  with 
a  thrill  as  of  pain  she  heard  the  faint  whistle  of  a  train  far 
up  the  valley.  The  man  moved  about  the  room  inside. 
Apparently  he  also  heard  the  far-off  whistle.  She  shrank 
around  the  corner  of  the  depot.  But  he  caught  sight  of 
her  dress,  and  slowly  sauntered  up  and  down  the  platform 
until  he  passed  near  enough  to  her  to  identify  her  in  the 
faint  flicker  of  the  gas.  He  spoke,  and  she  returned  his 
greeting.  The  train  whistled  again  —  much  nearer  it 
seemed  to  her,  but  still  far  away,  and  her  soul  and  the 
"  no  "  were  grappling  in  a  final  contest.  Suddenly  it  came 
over  hSr  that  she  had  not  bought  her  ticket.  Again  the 
train  whistled,  and  far  up  the  tracks  she  could  see  a  speck 
of  light.  She  hurried  into  the  waiting  room  to  buy  the 
ticket.  The  noise  of  the  train  was  beginning  to  sound  in 
her  ears.  She  was  frightened  and  nervous,  and  she  fum 
bled  with  her  purse  and  valise.  Nearer  and  nearer  came 
the  train,  and  the  "  Tio  "  fairly  screamed  in  her  ears,  and  her 
face  was  pallid,  with  the  black  wrinkles  standing  out  upon  it 
in  the  gaslight.  The  train  was  in  the  railroad  yards,  and 
the  glare  of  the  headlight  was  in  the  waiting  room.  Bemis 
came  in  and  saw  her  fumbling  with  her  ticket,  her  pocket 
book,  and  her  valise. 

"You'll  have  to  hurry,  Mrs.  Brownwell,  this  is  the 
limited  —  it  only  stops  a  minute.  Let  me  help  you." 

He  picked  up  the  valise  and  followed  her  from  the 
room.  The  rush  of  the  incoming  train  shattered  her 
nerves.  They  pulsed  in  fear  of  some  dreadful  thing,  and 
in  that  moment  she  wondered  whether  or  not  she  would 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  259 

ever  see  it  all  again  —  the  depot,  the  familiar  street,  the 
great  mill  looming  across  the  river,  and  the  Barclay  home 
half  a  mile  above  them.  In  a  second  she  realized  all 
that  her  going  meant,  and  the  "  no  "  screamed  at  her,  and 
the  "  why  not  "  answered  feebly.  But  she  had  gone  too 
far,  she  said  to  herself.  The  engine  was  passing  her,  and 
Bemis  was  behind  her  with  the  heavy  valise.  She  won 
dered  what  he  would  say  when  Bob  met  her  at  the  train 
in  the  city.  All  this  flashed  across  her  mind  in  a  second, 
and  then  she  became  conscious  that  the  rumbling  thing  in 
front  of  her  was  not  the  limited  but  a  cattle  train,  and  the 
sickening  odour  from  it  made  her  faint.  In  the  minute 
while  it  was  rushing  by  at  full  speed  she  became  rigid, 
and  then,  taking  her  valise  from  the  man  behind  her, 
turned  and  walked  as  fast  as  she  could  up  the  hill,  and 
when  she  turned  the  corner  she  tried  to  run.  Her  feet 
took  her  to  the  Barclay  home.  She  stood  trembling  in 
terror  on  the  great  wide  porch  and  rang  the  bell.  The 
servant  admitted  the  white-faced,  shaking  woman,  and 
she  ran  to  Jane  Barclay's  room. 

"  Oh,  Jane,"  chattered  Molly,  "  Jane,  for  God'*  love, 
Jane,  hold  me — hold  me  tight ;  don't  let  me  go.  Don't! " 
She  sank  to  the  floor  and  put  her  face  in  Jane's  lap  and 
stuttered :  "I  —  I  —  have  g-g-got  to  t-t-tell  you,  Jane. 
I've  g-g-ot  to  t-t-t-ell  you,  J- J-Jane."  And  then  she  fell  to 
sobbing.  "  Hold  me,  don't  let  me  go  out  there.  When 
it  whistles  ag-g-gain  h-h-hold  me  t-t-tight." 

Jane  Barclay's  strong  kind  hands  stroked  the  dishevelled 
hair  of  the  trembling  woman.  And  in  time  she  looked 
up  and  said  quietly,  "  You  know  —  you  know,  Jane,  Bob 
and  I  —  Bob  and  I  were  going  to  run  away!"  Molly 
looked  at  Jane  a  fearful  second  with  beseeching  eyes,  and 
then  dropped  her  head  and  fell  to  sobbing  again,  and  lay 
with  her  face  on  the  other  woman's  knees. 

When  she  was  quiet  Jane  said :  "  I  wouldn't  talk  about 
it  any  more,  dear  —  not  now."  She  stroked  the  hair  and 
patted  the  face  of  the  woman  before  her.  "  Shall  we  go 
to  bed  now,  dear?  Come  right  in  with  me."  And  soon 
Molly  rose,  a,nd  her  spent  soul  rested  in  peace.  But  they 


260  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

did  not  go  to  bed.     The  dawn   found   the   two   women 
talking  it  out  together  —  clear  from  the  beginning. 

And  when  the  day  came  Molly  Brownwell  went  to  Jane 
Barclay's  desk  and  wrote.  And  when  Bob  Hendricks  came 
home  that  night,  his  sister  handed  him  a  letter.  It  ran  :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  Bob :  I  have  thought  it  all  out,  dear ;  it  wouldn't  do  at 
all.  I  went  to  the  train,  and  something,  I  don't  know  what,  caught 
me  and  dragged  me  over  to  Jane's.  She  was  good  —  oh,  so  good. 
She  knows  ;  but  it  was  better  that  she  should  than  —  the  other  way. 

"  It  will  never  do,  Bob.  We  can't  go  back.  The  terrible  some 
thing  that  I  did  stands  irrevocably  between  us.  The  love  that  might 
have  made  both  our  lives  radiant  is  broken,  Bob  —  forever  broken. 
And  all  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men  cannot  ever  put  it  to 
gether  again.  I  know  it  now,  and  oh  Bob,  Bob,  it  makes  me  sadder 
than  the  pain  of  unsatisfied  love  in  my  heart. 

"It  just  can't  be;  nothing  ever  can  make  it  as  it  was,  and  unless  it 
could  be  that  way  —  the  boy  and  girl  way,  it  would  be  something 
dreadful.  We  have  missed  the  best  in  the  world,  Bob ;  we  cannot 
enjoy  the  next  best  together.  But  apart,  each  doing  his  work  in  life 
as  God  wills  it,  we  may  find  the  next  best,  which  is  more  than  mosfc 
people  know. 

"  I  have  found  during  this  hour  that  I  can  pray  again,  Bob,  and  I 
am  asking  God  always  to  let  me  hope  for  a  heaven,  into  which  I  can 
bring  a  tew  little  memories  —  of  the  time  before  you  left  me.  Won't 
you  bring  yours  there,  too,  dear  ?  Until  then  —  good-by. 

"  MOLLY," 

The  springs  that  move  God's  universe  are  hidden, — those 
that  move  the  world  of  material  things  and  those  that 
move  the  world  of  spiritual  things,  and  make  events  creep 
out  of  the  past  into  the  future  so  noiselessly  that  they  seem 
born  in  the  present.  It  is  all  a  mystery,  the  half-stated 
equation  of  life  that  we  call  the  scheme  of  things.  Only 
this  is  sure,  that  however  remote,  however  separated  by 
time  and  space,  the  tragedy  of  life  has  its  root  in  the  weak 
ness  of  men,  and  of  all  the  heart-breaking  phantasms  that 
move  across  the  panorama  of  the  day,  somewhere  deep- 
rooted  in  our  own  souls'  weakness  is  the  ineradicable  cause. 
Even  God's  mercy  cannot  separate  the  punishment  that 
follows  sin,  and  perhaps  it  is  the  greatest  mercy  of  His 
mercy  that  it  cannot  do  so.  For  when  we  leave  this  world, 
our  books  are  clear.  If  our  souls  grow  ~  we  pay  the  price 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  261 

in  suffering;  if  they  shrivel,  we  go  into  the  next  world, 
poorer  for  our  pilgrimage. 

So  do  not  pity  Molly 'Brown  well  nor  Robert  Hendricks 
when  you  learn  that  as  she  left  the  station  at  Sycamore 
Ridge  that  night,  Lige  Bemis  went  to  a  gas  lamp  and  read 
the  note  from  Robert  Hendricks  that  in  her  confusion  she 
had  dropped  upon  the  floor.  Only  pity  the  miserable 
creature  whose  soul  was  so  dead  in  him  that  he  could  put 
that  note  away  to  bide  his  time.  In  this  wide  universe, 
wherein  we  are  growing  slowly  up  to  Godhood,  only  the 
poor  leprous  soul,  whitened  with  malice  and  hate,  deserves 
the  angels'  tears.  The  rest  of  us,  —  weak,  failing,  frail,  to 
whom  life  deals  its  sorrows  and  its  tears,  its  punishments 
and  its  anguish,  —  we  leave  this  world  nearer  to  God  than 
when  we  came  here,  and  the  journey,  though  long  and  hard, 
has  been  worth  the  while. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

BACK  in  the  days  when  John  Barclay  had  become  power 
ful  enough  to  increase  the  price  of  his  door  strips  to  the 
railroad  companies  from  five  dollars  to  seven  and  a  half,  he 
had  transferred  the  business  of  the  factory  that  made  the 
strips  from  Hendricks'  Exchange  National  to  the  new  Mer 
chants'  State  Bank  which  Gabriel  Carnine  was  establishing. 
For  Carnine  and  Barclay  were  more  of  a  mind  than  were 
Barclay  and  Hendricks;  Carnine  was  bent  on  getting  rich, 
and  he  had  come  to  regard  Barclay  as  the  most  remarkable 
man  in  the  world.  Hendricks,  on  the  other  hand,  knew 
Barclay  to  the  core,  and  since  the  quarrel  of  the  seventies, 
while  they  had  maintained  business  relations,  they  were 
merely  getting  along  together.  There  were  times  when 
Barclay  felt  uncomfortable,  knowing  that  Hendricks  knew 
much  about  his  business,  but  the  more  Carnine  knew,  the 
more  praise  Barclay  had  of  him;  and  so,  even  though  Jane 
kept  her  own  account  with  Hendricks,  and  though  John 
himself  kept  a  personal  account  with  Hendricks,  the 
Economy  Door  Strip  Company  and  the  Golden  Belt  Wheat 
Company  did  business  with  Carnine,  and  Barclay  became 
a  director  of  the  Merchants'  State  Bank,  and  greatly  in 
creased  its  prestige  thereby.  And  Bob  Hendricks  sighed 
a  sigh  of  relief,  for  he  knew  that  he  would  never  become 
John  Barclay's  fence  and  be  called  upon  to  dispose  of  stolen 
goods.  So  Hendricks  went  his  way  with  his  eyes  on  a 
level  and  his  jaw  squared  with  the  world.  And  when 
he  knew  that  Jane  knew  the  secret  of  his  soul,  about  the 
only  comfort  he  had  in  those  black  days  was  the  exultation 
in  his  heart  that  John  —  whatever  he  might  know  — 
could  not  turn  it  into  cash  at  the  Exchange  National  Bank. 

As  he  walked  alone  under  the  stars  that  first  night  after 
Molly  Brown  well's  note  came  to  him,  he  saw  his  life  as  it 

262 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  263 

was,  with  things  squarely  in  their  relations.  Of  course 
this  light  did  .not  stay  with  him  always;  at  times  in  his 
loneliness  the  old  cloud  of  wild  yearning  would  come  over 
him,  and  he  would  rattle  the  bars  of  his  madhouse  until 
he  could  fight  his  way  out  to  the  clean  air  of  Heaven  under 
the  stars.  And  at  such  times  he  would  elude  Dolan,  and 
walk  far  away  from  the  town  in  fields  and  meadows  and 
woods  struggling  back  to  sanity  —  sometimes  through  a 
long  night.  But  as  the  years  passed,  this  truth  came  to 
be  a  part  of  his  consciousness  —  that  in  some  measure  the  * 
thing  we  call  custom,  or  law,  or  civilization,  or  society, 
with  all  its  faults,  is  the  best  that  man,  endowed  as  he  is 
to-day,  can  establish,  and  that  the  highest  service  one  can 
pay  to  man  or  to  God  is  found  in  conforming  to  the  social 
compact,  at  whatever  cost  of  physical  pain,  or  mental 
anguish,  if  the  conformation  does  not  require  a  moral 
breach.  That  was  the  faith  he  lived  by,  that  by  service 
to  his  fellows  and  by  sacrifice  to  whatever  was  worthy  in 
the  social  compact,  he  would  find  a  growth  of  soul  that 
would  pay  him,  either  here  or  hereafter.  So  he  lent 
money,  and  sold  light,  and  traded  in  merchandise,  and  did 
a  man's  work  in  politics  —  playing  each  game  according 
to  the  rules. 

But  whatever  came  to  him,  whatever  of  honour  or  of 
influence,  or  of  public  respect,  in  his  own  heart  there  was  the 
cloud  —  he  knew  that  he  was  a  forger,  and  that  once  he 
had  offered  to  throw  everything  he  had  aside  and  take  in 
return  —  But  he  was  not  candid  enough  even  in  his  own 
heart  to  finish  the  indictment.  It  made  him  flush  with 
shame,  and  perhaps  that  was  why  on  his  face  there  was 
often  a  curious  self-deprecating  smile — not  of  modesty, 
not  of  charity,  but  the  smile  of  the  man  who  is  looking 
at  a  passing  show  and  knows  that  it  is  not  real.  As  he 
went  into  his  forties,  and  the  flux  of  his  life  hardened,  he 
became  a  man  of  reserves  —  a  kind,  quiet,  strong  man, 
charitable  to  a  fault  for  the  weaknesses  of  others,  but  a 
man  who  rarely  reflected  his  impulses,  a  listener  in  conver 
sation,  a  dreamer  amid  the  tumult  of  business,  whose  suc 
cess  lay  in  his  industry  and  caution,  and  who  drew  men  to 


264  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

him  not  by  what  he  promised,  but  by  the  faith  we  chatter 
ing  daws  have  in  the  man  who  looks  on  and  smiles  while 
we  prattle. 

His  lank  bones  began  to  take  on  flesh,  and  his  face 
rounded  at  the  corners,  and  the  eagerness  of  youth  passed 
from  him.  He  always  looked  more  of  a  man  than  John 
Barclay.  For  Barclay  was  a  man  of  enthusiasms,  who 
occasionally  liked  to  mouth  a  hard  jaw-breaking  "  damn," 
and  who  followed  his  instincts  with  womanly  faith  in 
them — so  that  he  became  known  as  a  man  of  impulse. 
But  Hendricks'  power  was  in  repression,  and  in  Sycamore 
Ridge  they  used  to  say  that  the  only  reason  why  Bob 
Hendricks  grew  a  mustache  was  to  chew  it  when  people 
expected  him  to  talk.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  mustache  — 
a  little  blond  fuzz  about  as  heavy  as  his  yellow  eyebrows 
over  his  big  inquiring  blue  eyes,  and  he  once  told  Dolan 
that  he  kept  it  for  a  danger  signal.  When  he  found  him 
self  pulling  at  it,  he  knew  he  was  nervous  and  should  get 
out  into  the  open.  They  tell  a  story  in  the  Ridge  to  the 
effect  that  Hendricks  started  to  run  to  a  fire,  and  caught 
himself  pulling  at  his  mustache,  and  turned  around  and 
went  out  to  the  power-house  instead. 

It  was  the  only  anecdote  ever  told  of  Hendricks  after 
he  was  forty  —  for  he  was  not  a  man  about  whom  anec 
dotes  would  hang  well,  though  the  town  is  full  of  them 
about  John  Barclay.  So  Hendricks  lived  a  strong  reti- 
cent  man,  who  succeeded  in  business  though  he  was  hon 
est,  and  who  won  in  politics  by  choosing  his  enemies  from 
the  kind  of  noisy  men  who  make  many  mistakes,  and  let 
every  one  know  it.  The  time  came  when  he  did  not 
avoid  Molly  Brownwell ;  she  felt  that  he  was  not  afraid 
to  see  her  in  any  circumstances,  and  that  made  her  happy. 
Sometimes  she  went  to  him  in  behalf  of  one  of  her  father's 
charges,  —  some  poor  devil  who  could  not  pay  his  note  at 
the  bank  and  keep  the  children  in  school,  or  some  clerk 
or  workman  at  the  power-house  who  had  been  discharged. 
At  such  times  they  talked  the  matter  in  hand  over  frankly, 
and  it  ended  by  the  man  giving  way  to  the  woman,  or 
showing  her  simply  that  she  was  wrong. 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  265 

Only  once  in  nearly  a  score  of  years  did  a  personal 
word  pass  between  them.  She  had  come  to  him  for  his 
signature  to  a  petition  for  a  pardon  for  a  man  whose 
family  suffered  while  he  was  in  the  penitentiary.  Hen- 
dricks  signed  the  paper  and  handed  it  back  to  her,  and 
his  blue  eyes  were  fixed  impersonally  upon  her,  and  he 
smiled  his  curious,  self-deprecatory  smile  and  sighed, 
"As  we  forgive  our  debtors."  Then  he  reached  for  a 
paper  in  his  desk  and  seemed  oblivious  to  her  presence. 
No  one  else  was  near  them,  and  the  woman  hesitated  a 
moment  before  turning  to  go  and  repeated,  "  Yes,  Bob  — 
as  we  forgive  our  debtors."  She  tried  to  show  him  the 
radiance  in  her  soul,  but  he  did  not  look  up  and  she  went 
away.  When  she  had  gone,  he  pushed  aside  his  work 
and  sat  for  a  moment  looking  into  the  street ;  he  began 
biting  his  mustache,  and  rose,  and  went  out  of  the  bank 
and  found  some  other  work. 

That  night  as  Hendricks  and  Dolan  walked  over  the 
town  together,  Dolan  said  :  "  Did  you  ever  know,  Rob 
ert " —  that  was  as  near  familiarity  as  the  elder  man 
came  with  Hendricks  —  "that  Mart  Culpepper  owed  his 
son-in-law  a  lot  of  money  ?  " 

"  Well,"  returned  Hendricks,  "  he  borrowed  a  lot  fifteen 
years  ago  or  such  a  matter  ;  why  ?  " 

"  Well,"  answered  Dolan,  "  I  served  papers  on  Mart  to 
day  in  a  suit  for —  I  dunno,  a  lot  of  money  —  as  I  remem 
ber  it  about  fifteen  thousand  dollars.  That  seems  like  a 
good  deal." 

Hendricks  grunted,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence. 
Hendricks  knew  from  Brownwell's  overdraft  that  things 
were  not  going  well  with  him,  and  he  believed  that 
matters  must  have  reached  a  painful  crisis  in  the  Cul 
pepper  family  if  Bro.wnwell  had  brought  suit  against  the 
colonel. 

The  next  morning  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper  came  into 
the  bank.  He  had  grown  into  a  large  gray  man — with  gray 
hair,  gray  mustaches  of  undiminished  size,  and  chin  whis 
kers  grayed  and  broadened  with  the  years.  His  fine  black 
eyes  were  just  beginning  to  lose  their  lustre,  and  the  spring 


266  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

was  going  out  of  his  stride.  As  he  came  into  the  bank, 
Hendricks  noticed  that  the  colonel  seemed  to  shuffle  just 
a  little.  He  put  out  his  fat  hand,  and  said  :  — 

"  Robert,  will  you  come  into  the  back  room  with  me  a 
moment?  It  isn't  business  —  I  just  want  to  talk  with 
you."  He  smiled  apologetically  and  added,  "Just 
troubles,  Robert  —  just  an  old  man  wants  to  talk  to  some 
one,  in  point  of  fact." 

Hendricks  followed  the  colonel  into  the  directors'  room, 
and  without  ceremony  the  colonel  sank  heavily  into  a  fat 
leather  chair,  facing  the  window,  and  Hendricks  sat  down 
facing  the  colonel.  The  colonel  looked  at  the  floor  and 
fumbled  his  triangular  watch-charm  a  moment,  and  cleared 
his  throat,  as  he  spoke,  "I  don't  know  just  how  to  begin 
—  to  get  at  it  —  to  proceed,  as  I  may  say,  Robert."  Hen 
dricks  did  not  reply,  and  the  colonel  went  on,  "  I  just 
wanted  to  talk  to  some  one,  that's  all  —  to  talk  to  you  — 
just  to  you,  sir,  to  be  exact." 

Hendricks  looked  kindly  at  the  colonel,  whose  averted 
eyes  made  the  younger  man  feel  uncomfortable.  Then  he 
said  gently,  "Well,  Colonel,  don't  be  backward  about  say 
ing  what  you  want  to  to  me."  It  was  a  long  speech  for 
Hendricks,  and  he  felt  it,  and  then  qualified  it  with, 
"  But,  of  course,  I  don't  want  to  urge  you." 

The  colonel's  face  showed  a  flush  of  courage  to  Hen 
dricks,  but  the  courage  passed,  and  there  was  a  silence, 
and  then  a  little  twitch  under  his  eyes  told  Hendricks 
that  the  colonel  was  contemplating  a  flank  attack  as  he 
spoke,  "  Robert,  may  I  ask  you  in  confidence  if  Adrian 
Brown  well  is  hard  up  ?  " 

Hendricks  believed  the  truth  would  bring  matters  to 
a  head,  and  he  answered,  "  Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder, 
Colonel." 

"Very  hard  up?"  pressed  the  colonel. 

Hendricks  remembered  Brownwell's  overdraft  and  half 
a  dozen  past  due  notes  to  cover  other  overdrafts  and  an 
swered,  "Well,  Colonel,  not  desperate,  but  you  know  the 
Index  has  been  getting  the  best  of  the  Banner  for  two  or 
three  years." 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  267 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  colonel  blurted  out; 
"Well,  Bob,  he's  sued  me." 

"  I  knew  that,  Colonel,"  returned  Hendricks,  anxious 
to  press  the  matter  to  its  core.  "Jake  told  me  yester 
day." 

"  I  was  going  to  pay  him  ;  he's  spoken  about  it  several 
times — dunned  me,  sir,  in  point  of  fact,  off  and  on  for 
several  years.  But  he  knew  I  was  good  for  it.  And  now 
the  little  coward  runs  off  up  to  Chicago  to  attend  the  con 
vention  and  sues  me  while  he's  gone.  That's  what  I  hate." 
Hendricks  could  see  that  the  object  of  the  colonel's  visit 
was  still  on  his  mind,  and  so  he  left  the  way  open  for  the 
colonel  to  talk.  "  You  know  how  Mrs.  Culpepper  feels 
and  how  Molly  feels  —  disgraced,  sir,  humiliated,  shamed, 
to  be  exact,  sir,  in  front  of  the  whole  town.  What  would 
you  do,  Robert  ?  What  can  a  man  do  in  a  time  like  this 

—  I  ask  you,  what  can  he  do?" 

"  Well,  I'd  pay  him,  Colonel,  if  I  were  you,"  ventured 
the  younger  man. 

The  colonel  straightened  up  and  glared  at  Hendricks 
and  exclaimed:  "  Bob  Hendricks,  do  you  think,  sir,  that 
Martin  Culpepper  would  rest  for  a  minute,  while  he  had 
a  dollar  to  his  name,  or  a  rag  on  his  back,  under  the  im 
putation  of  not  paying  a  debt  like  that  ?  It  is  paid,  sir, 
• —  settled  in  full  this  morning,  sir.  But  what  am  I  going 
to  do  about  him,  sir  —  the  contemptible  scamp  who  pub 
licly  sued  his  own  wife's  father?  That's  what  I  came  to 
you  for,  Robert.  What  am  I  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  It'll  be  forgotten  in  a  week,  Colonel  —  I  wouldn't 
worry  about  it,"  answered  Hendricks.  "  We  all  have 
those  little  unpleasantnesses." 

The  colonel  was  4silent  for  a  time,  and  then  he  said  : 
"Bob — "  turning  his  eyes  to  meet  Hendricks'  for  the  first 
time  during  their  meeting  — "  that  scoundrel  said  to  me 
yesterday  morning  before  leaving,  4  If  I  hadn't  the  mis 
fortune  of  being  your  son-in-law,  you  wouldn't  have  the 
honour  of  owing  me  this  money.'  Then  he  sneered  at  me 

—  you  know  the  supercilious  way  he  has,  the  damn  miser 
able  hound-pup  way  he  has  of  grinning  at  you,  —  and  says, 


268  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

'I  regarded  it  as  a  loan,  even  though  you  seemed  to  re 
gard  it  as  a  bargain.'  And  he  whirled  and  left  me."  The 
colonel's  voice  broke  as  he  added :  "  In  God's  name,  Bob, 
tell  me  —  did  I  sell  Molly?  You  know  —  you  can  tell 
me." 

The  colonel  was  on  his  feet,  standing  before  Hendricks, 
with  his  hands  stretched  toward  the  younger  man.  Hen 
dricks  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  the  colonel  broke  forth: 
"  Bob  Hendricks,  why  did  you  and  my  little  girl  quarrel  ? 
Did  she  break  it  or  did  you?  Did  I  sell  her,  Bob,  did  I 
sell  my  little  girl?"  He  slipped  back  into  the  chair  and 
for  a  moment  hid  his  face,  and  shook  with  a  great  sob, 
then  pulled  himself  together,  and  said,  "  I  know  I'm  a 
foolish  old  man,  Bob,  only  I  feel  a  good  deal  depends  on 
knowing  the  truth  —  a  good  deal  of  my  attitude  toward 
him." 

Hendricks  looked  at  the  colonel  for  an  abstracted  mo 
ment,  and  then  said :  "  Colonel,  Adrian  Brown  well  is  hard 
up — very  hard  up,  and  you  don't  know  how  he  is  suffer 
ing  with  chagrin  at  being  beaten  by  the  Index.  He  is 
quick-tempered  — just  as  you  are,  Colonel."  He  paused  a 
moment  and  took  the  colonel  by  the  hand,  —  a  fat,  pink 
hand,  without  much  iron  in  it, — and  brought  him  to  his 
feet.  "  And  about  that  other  matter,"  he  added,  as  he 
put  his  arm  about  the  colonel,  "you  didn't  sell  her.  I 
know  that ;  I  give  you  my  word  on  that.  It  was  fifteen 
years  ago  —  maybe  longer— since  Molly  and  I  were — 
since  we  went  together  as  boy  and  girl.  That's  a  long 
time  ago,  Colonel,  a  long  time  ago,  and  I've  managed  to 
forget  just  why  we  —  why  we  didn't  make  a  go  of  it." 
He  smiled  kindly  at  the  colonel  as  he  spoke — a  smile  that 
the  colonel  had  not  seen  in  Hendricks'  face  in  many  years. 
Then  the  mask  fell  on  his  face,  and  the  colonel  saw  it  fall 
—  the  mask  of  the  man  over  the  face  of  the  boy.  A 
puzzled,  bewildered  look  crept  into  the  gray,  fat  face,  and 
Hendricks  could  see  that  the  doubt  was  still  in  the  colo 
nel's  heart.  The  younger  man  pressed  the  colonel's 
hand,  and  the  two  moved  toward  the  door.  Suddenly 
tears  flushed  into  the  dimmed  eyes  of  the  colonel,  and 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  269 

he  cried,  through  a  smile,  "  Bob  Hendricks,  I  believe  in 
my  soul  you're  a  liar  —  a  damn  liar,  sir,  but,  boy,  you're 
a  thoroughbred  —  God  bless  you,  you're  a  thoroughbred." 
And  he  turned  and  shuffled  from  the  room  and  out  of  the 
bank. 

When  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper  left  Robert  Hendricks 
at  the  door  of  the  directors'  room  of  the  Exchange  Na 
tional  Bank,  the  colonel  was  persuaded  in  his  heart  that 
his  daughter  had  married  Adrian  Brownwell  to  please  her 
parents,  arid  the  colonel  realized  that  day  that  her  parents 
were  pleased  with  Brownwell  as  a  suitor  for  their  daughter, 
because  in  time  of  need  he  had  come  to  their  rescue  with 
money,  and  incidentally  because  he  was  of  their  own  blood 
and  caste  —  a  Southern  gentleman  of  family.  The  colonel 
went  to  the  offices  of  the  Culpepper  Mortgage  and  Loan 
Company  and  went  over  his  bank-book  again.  The  check 
that  he  drew  would  take  all  but  three  hundred  and  forty- 
five  dollars  out  of  the  accounts  of  his  company,  and  not  a 
dollar  of  it  was  his.  The  Culpepper  Mortgage  Company 
was  lending  other  people's  money.  It  had  been  lending 
money  on  farm  mortgages  for  ten  years.  Pay-day  on 
many  mortgages  was  corning  due,  and  of  the  fifteen  thou 
sand  dollars  he  checked  out  to  pay  Adrian  Brownwell's 
debt,  thirteen  thousand  dollars  was  money  that  belonged 
to  the  Eastern  creditors  of  the  company  —  men  and  women 
who  had  sent  their  money  to  the  company  for  it  to  lend  ; 
and  the  money  checked  out  represented  money  paid  back 
by  the  farmers  for  the  release  of  their  mortgages.  Some 
of  the  money  was  interest  paid  by  farmers  on  their 
mortgages,  some  of  it  was  partial  payments  —  but  none 
of  it  was  Colonel  Culpepper's  money. 

"  Molly,"  said  the  colonel,  as  his  daughter  came  into 
the  office,  "  I've  given  a  check  for  that  —  that  money,  you 
know,  to  Adrian  —  paid  it  in  full,  my  dear.  But  —  "  the 
colonel  fumbled  with  his  pencil  a  moment  and  added, 
"  I'm  a  trifle  shy  —  a  few  thousand  in  point  of  fact,  and  I 
just  thought  I'd  ask  —  would  you  borrow  it  of  Bob,  if  you 
were  me  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  closely,  and  she  coloured  and  shook  her 


270  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

head  vehemently  as  she  replied:  "Oh,  no,  father  —  no, 
can't  you  get  it  somewhere  else?  Not  from  Bob  —  for 
that !  I  mean  —  oh  —  I'd  much  rather  not." 

The  colonel  looked  at  his  daughter  a  moment  and  drew 
a  deep  breath,  and  sighed,  and  smiled  across  his  sigh,  and 
took  her  hand  and  put  it  around  his  neck  and  kissed  it, 
and  when  she  was  close  to  him  he  put  his  arm  about  her, 
and  their  eyes  met  for  a  fleeting  instant,  and  they  did  not 
speak.  But  in  a  moment  from  across  his  desk  the  daughter 
spoke,  "  Why  don't  you  go  to  John  or  Carnine,  father  ?  " 

"  Well,  Gabe — you  know  Gabe.  I'm  borrowed  clear  to 
the  limit  there,  now.  And  John  — you  know  John,  Molly 
—  and  the  muss,  the  disagreeable  muss, — 'the  row,  in 
point  of  fact,  we  had  over  that  last  seventy-five  dollars 
settling  up  the  College  Heights  business  —  you  remember  ? 
Well,  I  just  can't  go  to  John.  But,"  he  added  cheerfully, 
44 1  can  get  it  elsewhere,  my  dear  —  I  have  other  resources, 
other  resources,  my  dear."  And  the  colonel  smiled  so 
gayly  that  he  deceived  even  his  daughter,  and  she  went 
home  as  happy  as  a  woman  with  eyelids  as  red  as  hers 
were  that  day  might  reasonably  expect  to  be. 

As  for  the  colonel,  he  sat  figuring  for  an  hour  upon  a 
sheet  of  white  paper.  His  figures  indicated  that  by  put 
ting  all  of  his  property  except  his  home  into  the  market, 
and  reserving  all  of  his  commissions  on  loans  that  would 
fall  due  during  the  three  years  coming,  he  could  pay  back 
the  money  he  had  taken,  little  by  little,  and  be  square 
with  the  company's  creditors  in  three  years  —  or  four  at 
the  most.  So  he  let  the  check  stand,  and  did  not  try  to 
borrow  money  of  the  banks  to  make  it  good,  but  trusted 
to  to-morrow's  receipts  to  pay  yesterday's  debts  of  the 
company.  Knowing  that  several  mortgages  of  more  than 
three  thousand  each  would  fall  due  in  a  few  weeks,  and 
that  the  men  carrying  them  expected  to  pay  them,  the 
colonel  wrote  dilatory  letters  to  the  Eastern  creditors  whose 
money  he  had  taken,  explaining  that  there  was  some  delay 
in  the  payment  of  the  notes,  and  that  the  matter  would 
be  straightened  out  in  a  few  weeks.  When  the  money 
came  in  from  the  mortgages  falling  due  the  next  month, 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  271 

he  paid  those  already  due,  and  delayed  the  payment  of  , 
Peter  until  Paul  paid  up.  It  was  a  miserable  business, 
and  Colonel  Culpepper  knew  that  he  was  a  thief.  The 
knowledge  branded  him  as  one,  and  bent  his  eyes  to  the 
ground,  an  ;  wrenched  his  proud  neck  so  that  his  head  hung 
loosely  upon  it.  Always  when  he  spoke  in  public,  or  went 
among  his  poor  on  errands  of  mercy,  at  his  elbow  stood 
the  accusing  spectre,  and  choked  his  voice,  and  unnerved 
his  hand.  And  trouble  came  upon  the  Culpeppers,  and 
the  colonel's  clothes,  which  had  always  been  immaculate, 
grew  shabby.  As  that  year  and  the  next  passed  and 
mortgages  began  falling  due,  not  only  in  the  colonel's  com 
pany  but  all  over  the  county,  all  over  the  state,  all  over 
the  Missouri^  Valley,  men  found  they  could  not  pay.  The 
cycle  of  business  depression  moved  across  the  world,  as 
those  things  come  and  go  through  the  centuries.  More 
over,  General  Ward  was  riding  on  the  crest  of  a  wave  of 
unrest  which  expressed  in  terms  of  politics  what  the 
people  felt  in  their  homes.  Debts  were  falling  due ;  crops 
brought  small  returns ;  capital  was  frightened ;  men  in 
the  mills  lost  their  work ;  men  on  the  farms  burned  their 
corn ;  and  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  mire. 

Those  years  of  the  panic  of  the  early  nineties  pressed 
all  the  youth  out  of  his  step,  dimmed  the  lustre  of  his 
eyes,  and  slowly  broke  his  heart.  His  keenest  anguish  ^/ 
was  not  for  his  own  suffering,  but  because  his  poor,  the 
people  at  the  Mission,  came  trooping  to  him  for  help,  and 
he  had  to  turn  so  many  away.  The  whole  town  knew 
that  he  was  in  trouble,  though  no  one  knew  or  even  sus 
pected  just  what  it  was.  For  the  people  had  their  own 
troubles  in  those  days,  and  the  town  and  the  county  and 
the  state  and  the  whole  world  grew  shabby. 

One  day  in  the  summer  of  '93,  Colonel  Culpepper  was 
sitting  in  his  office  reading  a  letter  from  Vermont  demand 
ing  a  long-deferred  interest  payment  on  a  mortgage. 
There  were  three  hundred  dollars  due,  and  the  colonel  had 
but  half  that  amount,  and  was  going  to  send  what  he  had. 
Jake  Dolan  came  into  the  office  and  saw  the  colonel 


272  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

sitting  with  the  letter  crumpled  in  his  hands,  and  with 
worry  in  the  dull  old  eyes. 

"  Come  in,  Jake,  come  in,"  cried  the  colonel,  a  little 
huskily.     "  What's  the  trouble,  comrade — what's  wrong  ?  " 

But  let  Dolan  tell  it  to  Hendricks  three  days  later,  as 
the  two  are  sitting  at  night  on  the  stone  bridge  across  the 
Sycamore  built  by  John  Barclay  to  commemorate  the 
battle  of  Sycamore  Ridge.  "  '  Well,  Mart,'  says  I,  '  I'm  in 
vicarious  trouble,'  says  I.  '  It's  along  of  my  orphan  asy 
lum,'  says  I.  '  What  orphan  asylum  ? '  says  he.  '  Well, 
it's  this  way,  Mart,'  says  I.  '  You  know  they  found  Trixie 
Lee  guilty  this  afternoon  in  the  justice  court,  don't  you?' 
Mart  sighs  and  says,  '  Poor  Trixie,  I  supposed  they  would 
sooner  or  later,  poor  girl  —  poor  girl.  An'  old  Cap  Lee 
of  the  Red  Legs  was  her  father  ;  did  you  know  that,  Jake  ? ' 
he  asks.  '  Yes,  Mart,'  says  I,  '  and  Lady  Lee  before  her. 
She  comes  by  it  honestly.'  Mart  sat  drumming  with  his 
fingers  on  the  table,  looking  back  into  the  years.  'Poor 
Jim,'  he  says,  'Jim  was  a  brave  soldier  —  a  brave,  big- 
hearted,  generous  soldier  —  he  nursed  me  all  that  first 
night  at  Wilson's  Creek  when  I  was  wounded.  Poor  Jim.' 
'Yes,'  says  I,  'and  Trixie  has  named  her  boy  for  him — '"* 
Jim.  Lord  Lee  Young ;  that  was  her  husband's  name  — 
Young,'  says  I.  '  And  it's  along  of  the  boy  that  I'm  here 
for.  The  nicest  bright-eyed  little  chap  you  ever  saw ;  and 
he  seems  to  know  that  something  is  wrong,  and  just 
clings  to  his  mother  and  cries  —  seven  years  old,  or  maybe 
eight  —  and  begs  me  not  to  put  his  mother  in  jail.  And,' 
says  I  to  Mart,  '  Mart,  I  just  can't  do  it.  The  sheriff  he's 
run,  and  so  has  the  deputy ;  they  can't  stand  the  boy  cry 
ing,  and  damn  it  to  hell,  Mart,  I  can't,  either;  so  I  just 
left  'em  in  the  office  and  locked  the  door  and  come  around 
to  see  you.  I'd  'a'  gone  to  see  Bob,  only  he's  out  of  town 
this  week,'  I  says.  'I  can  throw  up  the  job,  Mart — • 
though  I'd  have  to  go  on  the  county  ;  but  Mart,  they  ain't 
a  soul  for  the  boy  to  go  to ;  and  it  ain't  right  to  put  him 
in  jail  with  the  scum  that's  in  there.' ' 

"  Tough -— wasn't  it?"  said  Hendricks.     "What   did 
you  do?     Why  didn't  you  go  to  Carnine  or  Barclay  ?  " 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  273 

"  That's  just  what  I'm  a-comin'  to,  —  the  Priest  or  the 
Levite  ?  "  said  Jake.  "  Well,  Mart  said,  '  Where're  the 
men  they  caught  —  won't  they  help  ?  '  and  I  says,  '  They 
paid  their  fine  and  skipped.'  'Fine?'  asks  Mart,  'fine? 
I  thought  you  said  it  was  jail  sentence.'  'Well,'  says  I, 
'  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing  ;  she  can't  pay  her  fine,  and 
that  damn  reform  judge,  wanting  to  make  a  record  as  a 
Spartan,  has  committed  her  to  jail  till  it  is  paid  ! '  'So 
they  go  free,  and  she  goes  to  jail,  because  she  is  poor,'  says 
Mart.  '  That's  what  your  reform  means,'  says  I,  '  or  I  let 
her  and  the  boy  loose  and  lose  my  job.  And  oh,  Mart,'  says 
I,  '  the  screams  of  that  little  boy  at  the  disgrace  of  it  and 
the  terror  of  the  jail  —  man  —  I  can't  stand  it  !  '  '  How 
much  is  it  ? '  sighs  Mart.  '  An  even  hundred  fine  and  seven 
teen  dollars  and  fifty  cents  costs,'  says  I.  Mart's  eyes 
was  leaking,  and  he  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  vault,  and 
comes  back  with  the  cash  and  says,  blubbering  like  a  calf  : 
'  Here,  Jake  Dolan,  you  old  scoundrel,  take  this.  I'll  pass 
a  paper  and  get  it  to-morrow  —  now  get  out  of  here.'  And 
he  handed  me  the  money  all  cried  over  where  he'd  been 
slow  counting  it  out,  and  said  when  he'd  got  hold  of  his 
wobbly  jaw:  'Don't  you  tell  her  where  you  got  it  —  I 
don't  want  her  around  here.  I'll  see  her  to-morrow  when 
I'm  down  that  way  and  talk  to  her  for  old  Cap  Lee  —  * 
And  then  he  laughs  as  he  stands  in  the  door  and  says: 
'  Well,  Jim,'  and  he  points  up,  '  your  bread  cast  upon  the 
waters  was  a  long  time  a-coming  —  but  here  she  is;'  and 
he  says,  'Do  you  suppose  the  old  villain  knows?'  And 
I  turned  and  hunted  up  the  justice  and  went  around  to 
the  office,  and  told  Trixie  to  'go  sin  no  more,'  and  she 
laughs  and  says,  '  Well,  hardly  ever! '  and  I  kissed  the 
kid,  and  he  fought  my  whiskers,  and  we  all  live  happy 
ever  after." 

But  the  colonel,  after  Dolan  left  the  office,  went  into 
the  darkening  room,  and  spread  out  the  harsh  letter  from 
the  Vermont  banker  demanding  money  long  past  due,  and 
read  and  reread  it  and  took  up  his  burden,  and  got  into 
the  weary  treadmill  of  his  life.  It  rained  the  next  day, 
and  he  did  not  go  out  with  his  subscription  paper ;  he  had 


274  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

learned  that  people  subscribe  better  on  bright  days  ;  and 
as  Hendricks  and  Barclay  were  both  out  of  town,  he  wrote 
a  dilatory  letter  to  the  Vermont  people  —  the  fifth  he  had 
written  about  that  particular  transaction  —  and  waited 
another  rainy  day  and  still  another  before  starting  out  with 
his  paper.  But  the  event  was  past ;  the  cry  of  the  child 
was  not  in  the  people's  ears ;  they  knew  that  the  colonel 
had  put  up  the  money  ;  so  it  was  not  until  Hendricks  came 
back  and  heard  the  story  from  Dolan  that  the  colonel  was 
repaid.  Then  because  he  actually  had  the  money — at 
least  half  of  it  due  on  that  particular  debt,  which  was  one 
of  scores  of  its  kind — the  colonel  delayed  another  day  and 
another,  and  while  he  was  musing  the  fire  burned.  And 
events  started  in  Vermont  which  greatly  changed  the 
course  of  this  story. 

"I  wonder,"  he  has  written  in  that  portion  of  the  Mc- 
Hurdie  Biography  devoted  to  "The  Press  of  the  Years," 
"  why,  as  we  go  farther  and  farther  into  life,  invariably  it 
grows  dingier  and  dingier.  The  '  large  white  plumes ' 
that  dance  before  the  eyes  of  youth  soil,  and  are  bedraggled. 
And  out  of  the  inexplicable  tangle  of  the  mesh  of  life 
come  dark  threads  from  God  knows  where  and  colour  the 
woof  of  it  gray  and  dreary.  Ah  for  the  days  of  the  large 
white  plumes — for  the  days  when  life's  woof  was  bright  I  " 


CHAPTER  XX 

IF  the  reader  of  this  tale  should  feel  drawn  to  visit 
Sycamore  Ridge,  he  will  find  a  number  of  interesting 
things  there,  and  the  trip  may  be  made  by  the  transconti 
nental  traveller  with  the  loss  of  but  half  a  dozen  hours 
from  his  journey.  The  Golden  Belt  Railroad,  fifteen  years 
ago,  used  to  print  a  guide-book  called  "  California  and 
Back,"  in  which  were  set  down  the  places  of  interest  to 
the  traveller.  In  that  book  Sycamore  Ridge  was  described 
thus:  — 

"  Sycamore  Bidge,  pop.  22,345,  census  1890 ;  large  water-power,  main 
industry  milling ;  also  manufacturing ;  five  wholesale  houses.  Seat 
Ward  University,  1300  students  ;  also  Garrison  County  High  School, 
also  Business  College.  Thirty-five  churches,  two  newspapers,  the 
Daily  Banner  and  the  Index ;  fifty  miles  of  paved  streets ;  largest 
stone  arch  bridge  in  the  West,  marking  site  of  Battle  of  Sycamore 
Ridge,  a  border  ruffian  skirmish ;  home  of  AVatts  McHurdie,  famous 
as  writer  of  war-songs,  best  known  of  which  is  —  "  etc.,  etc. 

But  excepting  Watts,  who  may  be  gone  before  you  get 
there,  —  for  he  is  an  old  man  now,  and  is  alone  and  prob 
ably  does  not  always  have  the  best  of  care,  —  the  things 
above  annotated  will  not  interest  the  traveller.  At  the 
Thayer  House  they  will  tell  you  that  three  things  in  the 
town  give  it  distinction :  the  Barclay  home,  a  rambling  gray 
brick  ^structure  which  the  natives  call  Barclay  Castle,  with 
a  great  sycamore  tree  held  together  by  iron  bands  on  the 
terraced  lawn  before  the  house  —  that  is  number  one;  the 
second  thing  they  will  advise  the  traveller  to  see  is  Mary 
Barclay  Park,  ten  acres  of  transplanted  elm  trees,  most 
tastefully  laid  out,  between  Main  Street  and  the  Barclay 
home;  and  the  third  thing  that  will  be  pointed  out  to  the 
traveller  is  the  Schnitzler  fountain,  in  the  cemetery  gate 
way,  done  by  St.  Gaudens;  it  represents  a  soldier  pouring 

275 


276  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

water  from  his  canteen  into  his  hand,  as  he  bathes  the 
brow  of  a  dying  comrade. 

These  things,  of  course,  —  the  house,  the  park,  and  the 
fountain,  —  represent  John  Barclay  and  his  money.  The 
town  is  proud  of  them,  but  the  reader  is  advised  not  to 
expect  too  much  of  them.  One  of  the  two  things  really 
worth  seeing  at  the  Ridge  is  the  view  over  the  wheat 
fields  of  the  Sycamore  Valley  from  the  veranda  of  the 
Culpepper  home  on  the  hill.  There  one  may  see  the 
great  fields  lying  in  three  townships  whereon  John  Bar 
clay  founded  his  fortune.  The  second,  thing  worth  seeing 
may  be  found  in  the  hallway  of  the  public  library  build 
ing,  just  at  the  turn  of  the  marble  stairway,  where  the 
morning  light  strikes  it.  Take  the  night  train  out  of 
Chicago  and  get  to  the  Ridge  in  the  morning,  to  get  the 
light  on  that  picture. 

It  is  a  portrait  of  John  Barclay,  done  when  he  was  forty 
years  old  and  painted  by  a  Russian  during  the  summer 
when  the  Barclays  were  called  home  from  Europe  before 
their  journey  was  half  completed,  to  straighten  out  an 
obstreperous  congressman,  one  Tom  Wharton  by  name,  who 
was  threatening  to  put  wheat  and  flour  on  the  free  list  in 
a  tariff  bill,  unless  —  but  that  is  immaterial,  except  that 
Wharton  was  on  Barclay's  mind  more  or  less  while  the 
painter  was  at  work,  and  the  portrait  reflects  what  Barclay 
thought  of  a  number  of  things.  It  shows  a  small  gray- 
clad  man,  with  a  pearl  pin  in  a  black  tie,  sitting  rather  on 
the  edge  of  his  chair,  leaning  forward,  so  that  the  head  is 
thrown  into  the  light.  The  eyes  are  well  opened,  and  the 
jaw  comes  out,  a  hard  mean  jaw;  but  the  work  of  the 
artist,  the  real  work  that  reveals  the  soul  of  the  sitter,  is 
shown  in  three  features,  if  we  except  the  pugnacious 
shoulders.  In  the  face  are  two  of  these  features  :  the 
mouth,  a  hard,  coarse,  furtive  mouth,  —  the  mouth  of  the 
liar  who  is  not  polished, — the  peasant  liar  who  has  been 
caught  and  has  brazened  it  out;  the  mouth  and  the  fore 
head,  full  almost  to  bulging,  so  clean  and  white  and  naked 
that  it  seems  shameful  to  expose  it,  a  poet's  forehead, 
noble  and  full  of  dreams,  broad  over  the  eyes,  and  as  deli- 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  277 

cately  modelled  at  the  temples  as  a  woman's  where  the  curly 
brown  hair  is  brushed  away  from  it.  But  the  wonderful 
feature  about  the  portrait  is  the  right  hand.  The  artist 
obviously  asked  Barclay  to  assume  a  natural  attitude,  and 
then  seeing  him  lean  forward  with  his  hand  stretched  out 
in  some  gesture  of  impatience,  persuaded  him  to  take  that 
pose.  It  is  the  sort  of  vital  human  thing  that  would 
phrase  Barclay — no  sham  about  it;  but  he  did  not  real 
ize  what  the  Russian  was  putting  into  that  hand  —  a  long, 
hard,  hairy,  hollow,  grasping,  relentless  hand,  full  in  the 
foreground  and  squarely  in  the  light  —  a  horrible  thing 
with  artistic  fingers,  and  a  thin,  greedy  palm  indicated  by 
the  deep  hump  in  the  back.  It  reaches  out  from  the  pic 
ture,  with  the  light  on  the  flesh  tints,  with  the  animal  hair 
thick  upon  it,  and  with  the  curved,  slender,  tapering  fin 
gers  cramped  like  a  claw;  and  when  one  follows  up  the 
arm  to  the  crouching  body,  the  furtive  mouth,  the  bold, 
shrewd  eyes,  and  then  sees  that  forehead  full  of  visions, 
one  sees  in  it  more  than  John  Barclay  of  Sycamore  Ridge, 
more  than  America,  more  than  Europe.  It  is  the  menace 
of  civilization  —  the  danger  to  the  race  from  the  domina 
tion  of  sheer  intellect  without  moral  restraint. 

General  Ward,  who  was  on  the  committee  that  received 
the  picture  fifteen  years  after  it  was  painted,  stood  looking 
at  it  the  morning  it  was  hung  there  on  the  turn  of  the 
stairs.  As  the  light  fell  mercilessly  upon  it,  the  general, 
white-haired,  white-necktied,  clean-shaven,  and  lean-faced, 
gazed  at  the  portrait  for  a  long  time,  and  then  said  to  his 
son  Neal  who  stood  beside  him,  "  And  Samson  wist  not 
that  the  Lord  had  departed  from  him." 

It  will  pay  one  to  stop  a  day  in  Sycamore  Ridge  to  see 
that  picture  —  though  he  does  not  know  John  Barclay, 
and  only  understands  the  era  that  made  him,  and  gave  him 
that  refined,  savage*,  cunning,  grasping  hand. 

Barclay  stopped  a  week  in  Washington  on  his  return  from 
Europe  the  year  that  picture  was  painted,  made  a  draft  for 
fifty  thousand  dollars  on  the  National  Provisions  Company 
to  cover  "  legal  expenses,"  and  came  straight  home  to  Syca 
more  Ridge.  He  was  tired  of  cities,  he  told  Colonel  Cul- 


278  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

pepper,  who  met  Barclay  at  the  post-office  the  morning  he 
returned,  with  his  arms  full  of  newspapers.  "  I  want  to 
hear  the  old  mill,  Colonel,"  said  Barclay,  "to  smell  the 
grease  down  in  the  guts  of  her,  and  to  get  my  hair  full 
of  flour  again."  When  he  had  gorged  himself  for  two 
days,  he  wired  Bemis  to  come  to  the  Ridge,  and  Barclay 
and  Bemis  sat  on  the  dam  one  evening  until  late  bedtime, 
considering  many  things.  As  they  talked,  Barclay  found 
that  a  plan  for  the  reorganization  of  the  Provisions  Com 
pany  was  growing  in  his  mind,  and  he  talked  it  out  as 
it  grew. 

"  Lige,"  he  said,  as  he  leaned  with  his  elbows  on  a  rock 
behind  him,  "the  trouble  with  the  company  as  it  now 
stands  is  that  it's  too  palpable.  There's  too  much  to  levy 
on  —  too  much  in  sight;  too  much  physical  property. 
How  would  it  do  to  sell  all  these  mills  and  elevators,  and 
use  the  company  as  a  kind  of  a  cream  skimmer  —  a  profit 
shop  —  to  market  the  products  of  the  mills  ?  "  He  paused 
a  moment,  and  Bemis,  who  knew  he  was  not  expected  to 
reply,  flipped  pebbles  into  the  stream.  Barclay  changed 
his  position  slightly  and  began  to  pick  stones  out  of  the 
crevices,  and  throw  the  stones  into  the  water.  "  That's 
the  thing  to  do  —  go  ahead  and  sell  every  dollar's  worth 
of  assets  the  company's  got  —  I'll  take  the  mill  here.  I 
couldn't  get  along  without  that.  Then  we'll  buy  the 
products  of  the  mills  at  cost  of  the  millers,  and  let  them 
get  their  profits  back  as  individual  holders  of  our  stock. 
Our  company  will  handle  the  Door  Strip  —  buy  it  and  sell 
it  —  and  if  any  long-nosed  reformer  gets  to  snooping 
around  the  mills,  he'll  find  they  are  making  only  a  living 
profit;  and  as  for  us  —  any  state  grain  commissioner  or 
board  of  commissioners  who  wanted  to  examine  us  could 
do  so,  and  what'd  he  find  ?  Simply  that  we're  buying  our 
products  at  cost  of  the  millers  and  selling  at  the  market 
price  —  sometimes  at  a  loss,  sometimes  at  a  profit ;  and 
what  if  we  do  handle  all  the  grain  and  grain  products  in 
the  United  States  ?  They  can't  show  that  we  are  hurt 
ing  anything.  I  tell  you  there's  getting  to  be  too  much 
snooping  now  in  the  state  and  federal  governments. 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  279 

Have  you  got  any  fellow  in  your  office  who  can  fix  up  a 
charter  that  will  let  us  buy  and  sell  grain,  and  also  sell 
the  Barclay  Economy  Strip  ?  " 

Bemis  nodded. 

"  Then,  damn  'em,  let  'em  go  on  with  their  commis 
sioners  and  boards  and  legislative  committees  ;  they  can't 
catch  us.  There's  no  law  against  the  railroads  that  ship 
our  stuff  buying  the  Economy  Door  Strip,  is  there  ?  You 
bet  there  isn't.  And  we're  entitled  to  a  good  round  in 
ventor's  profit,  ain't  we  ?  You  bet  we  are.  You  go  ahead 
and  get  up  that  reorganization,  and  I'll  put  it  through. 
Say,  Lige  —  "  Barclay  chuckled  as  a  recollection  flashed 
across  his  mind — "you  know  I've  made  some  of  our 
Northwest  senators  promise  to  make  you  a  federal  judge. 
That's  one  of  the  things  I  did  last  week  ;  I  thought 
maybe  sometime  we'd  need  a  federal  judge  as  one  of  the 
—  what  do  you  call  it  —  the  hereditaments  thereunto  ap 
pertaining  of  the  company."  Bemis  opened  his  eyes  in 
astonishment,  and  Barclay  grunted  in  disgust  as  he  went 
on :  "  Of  course  we  can't  get  you  appointed  from  this 
state  —  that's  clear  —  but  they  think  we  can  work  it 
through  in  the  City  —  as  soon  as  there  is  a  vacancy  —  or 
make  a  new  district.  How  would  you  like  that  ?  Judge 
Bemis  —  say,  that  sounds  all  right,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Barclay  rose  and  stretched  his  legs  and  arms.  "  Well, 
I  must  be  going  —  Mrs.  Barclay  and  my  mother  want  to 
hear  the  new  organ  over  in  the  Congregational  Church. 
It's  a  daisy  —  Colonel  Culpepper,  amongst  hands,  skir 
mished  up  three  thousand.  They  let  me  pick  it  out,  and 
I  had  to  put  up  another  thousand  myself  to  get  the  kind 
[  wanted.  Are  you  well  taken  care  of  at  the  hotel?" 
When  Bemis  explained  that  he  had  the  bridal  chamber, 
the  two  men  clambered  up  the  bank  of  the  stream,  crossed 
the  bridge,  and  at  his  gate  Barclay  said :  "  Now,  I'll  sleep 
on  this  to-night,  —  this  reorganization,  —  and  then  I'll 
write  you  a  letter  to-morrow,  covering  all  that  I've  said, 
and  you  can  fix  up  a  tentative  charter  and  fire  it  down  — 
and  say,  Lige,  figure  out  what  a  modest  profit  on  all  the 
grain  and  grain  produce  business  of  the  country  would 


280  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

be  —  say  about  two  and  a  haif  per  cent,  and  make  the 
capitalization  of  the  reorganization  fit  that.  We'll  get 
the  real  profits  out  of  the  Door  Strip,  and  can  fix  that  up 
in  the  books.  We'll  show  the  reformers  a  trick  or  two." 

It  was  a  warm  night,  and  when  the  organ  recital  was 
over,  John  and  Jane  Barclay,  after  the  custom  of  the 
town,  sat  on  a  terrace  in  front  of  the  house  talking  of 
the  day's  events.  Music  always  made  John  babble. 

"  Jane,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "  Jane  —  when  does  a  man 
begin  to  grow  old?  Here  I  am  past  forty.  I  used  to 
think  when  a  man  was  forty  he  was  middle-aged ;  every 
five  years  I  have  advanced  my  idea  of  what  an  old  man 
was;  when  I  was  fifteen,  I  thought  a  man  was  getting 
along  when  he  was  thirty.  When  I  was  twenty-five,  I 
regarded  forty  as  the  beginning  of  the  end ;  when  I  was 
thirty,  I  put  the  limit  of  activity  at  forty-five ;  five  years 
ago  I  moved  it  up  to  fifty;  and  to-day  I  have  jumped  it  to 
sixty.  It  seems  to  me,  Jane,  that  I'm  as  much  of  a  boy 
as  ever;  all  this  talk  about  my  being  a  man  puzzles  me. 
What's  this  Provisions  Company  but  a  game?  And  I'm 
going  to  play  another  game  ;  I'm  going  to  get  grain  and 
grain  produce  organized,  and  then  I'm  going  to  tackle 
meat.  In  ten  years  I'll  have  the  packing-houses  where  I 
have  the  mills ;  but  it's  just  play  —  and  it's  a  lot  of  fun." 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  Jane  did  not  disturb  his  rev 
eries.  She  understood,  without  exactly  putting  her  feel 
ing  into  language,  that  she  was  being  talked  at,  not  talked 
to. 

"  Say,  Jane,"  he  exclaimed,  "  wasn't  that '  Marche  Triom- 
phante  to-night  great  ?  "  He  hummed  a  bar  from  the  mo 
tif,  "That's  it — my  —  "he  cried,  hitting  his  chair  arm 
with  his  fist,  "  but  that's  a  big  thing — almost  good  enough 
for  Wagner  to  have  done  ;  big  and  insistent  and  strong. 
I'm  getting  to  like  music  with  go  to  it — with  bang  and 
brass.  Wagner  does  it ;  honest,  Jane,  when  I  hear  his 
trombones  coming  into  a  theme,  I  get  ideas  enough  to 
give  the  whole  force  in  the  office  nervous  prostration  for  a 
month.  To-night  when  that  thing  was  swelling  up  like  a 
great  tidal  wave  of  music  rolling  in,  I  worked  out  a  big 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  281 

idea  •,  I'm  going  to  sell  all  the  mills  and  factories  back  to 
the  millers  for  our  stock,  and  when  I  own  every  dollar  of 
our  stock,  I'm  going  to  double  the  price  of  it  to  them 
and  sell  it  back  to  them  ;  and  if  they  haggle  about  it,  I'll 
build  a  new  mill  across  the  track  from  every  man-jack 
who  tries  to  give  me  any  funny  business — I'll  show  'em. 
That  reorganization  ought  to  clean  up  millions  for  us  in 
the  next  year.  What  a  lot  of  fun  it  all  is  !  I  used  to 
think  old  Jay  Gould  was  some  pumpkins ;  but  if  we  get 
this  reorganization  through,  I'll  go  down  there  and  buy 
the  Gould  outfit  and  sell  'em  for  old  iron." 

The  current  of  his  thoughts  struck  under  language, 
as  a  prairie  stream  sometimes  hides  from  its  surface  bed. 
After  a  time  Jane  said:  "Grandma  Barclay  thought  the 
4  Marche  Funebre '  was  the  best  thing  the  man  did.  I 
heard  the  Wards  speaking  of  it  in  the  vestibule;  and 
Molly,  who  held  my  hand  through  it,  nearly  squeezed  it 
off  —  poor  girl;  but  she  looks  real  well  these  days." 
Jane  paused  a  moment  and  added:  "Did  you  notice  the 
colonel  ?  How  worn  and  haggard  he  looks  —  he  seems 
broken  so.  They  say  he  is  in  trouble.  Couldn't  we  help 
him  ?  " 

Her  husband  did  not  reply  at  once.  Finally  he  recalled 
his  wandering  wits  and  answered:  "  Oh,  I  don't  know, 
Jane.  He'll  pull  through,  I  guess."  Then  he  reverted 
to  the  music,  which  was  still  in  his  head.  "  He  played 
the  Largo  well  —  didn't  he  ?  That  was  made  for  the 
organ.  But  some  way  I  like  the  big  things.  The  Largo 
is  like  running  a  little  twenty-horse-power  steam  mill, 
and  selling  to  the  home  grocers.  But  4  The  Ride  of  the 
Valkyries,'  with  those  screaming  discords  of  brass,  and 
those  magnificent  crashes  of  harmony  —  Jane,  I've  got  an 
idea  —  Wagner's  work  is  the  National  Provisions  Company 
set  to  music,  and  I'm  the  first  trombone."  He  laughed  and 
reached  for  his  wife's  hand  and  kissed  it;  then  he  rose 
and  stood  before  her,  admiring  her  in  the  starlight,  as  he 
exclaimed :  "  And  you  are  those  clarinets,  sweet  and  clear 
and  delicious,  that  make  a  man  want  to  cry  for  sheer  joy. 
Come  on,  my  dear  —  isn't  it  very  late  ?  "  And  the  little 


282  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

man  limped  across  the  grass  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
house.  The  two  stopped  a  moment  while  he  listened  to 
the  roar  of  the  water  and  the  rumble  of  the  mill,  that 
glowed  in  the  night  like  a  phosphorescent  spectre.  He 
squeezed  her  hand  and  cried  out  in  exultation,  "  It's  great, 
isn't  it  —  the  finest  mill  on  this  planet,  my  dear  —  do  you 
realize  that  ?  "  And  then  they  turned  into  the  house. 

The  next  morning  he  kept  two  stenographers  busy ;  he 
was  spinning  the  web  of  his  reorganization,  bringing  about 
a  condition  under  which  men  were  compelled  to  exchange 
their  stock  in  the  National  Provisions  Company  for  their 
former  property.  He  was  a  crafty  little  man,  and  his  ways 
were  sometimes  devious,  even  though  to  outward  view  his 
advertised  and  proclaimed  methods  were  those  of  a  pirate. 
So  when  he  had  dictated  a  day's  work  to  two  girls,  he 
went  nosing  through  the  mill,  loafing  in  the  engine  rooms, 
looking  at  the  water  wheel,  or  running  about  rafters  in  the 
fifth  floor  like  a  great  gray  rat.  As  he  went  he  hummed 
little  tunes  under  his  breath  or  whistled  between  his  teeth, 
with  his  lips  apart.  After  luncheon  he  unlocked  a  row- 
boat,  and  took  a  cane  pole  and  rowed  himself  a  mile  up 
the  mill-pond,  and  brought  home  three  good-sized  bass. 
Thus  did  he  spend  his  idle  moments  around  the  Ridge. 
That  night  he  thumped  his  piano  and  longed  for  a  pipe 
organ.  The  things  he  tried  to  play  were  noisy,  and  his 
mother,  sitting  in  the  gloaming  near  him,  sighed  and  said  : 
*'  John,  play  some  of  the  old  pieces  —  the  quieter  ones ; 
play  '  The  Long  and  Weary  Day '  and  some  of  the  old 
songs.  Have  you  forgotten  the  'Bohemian  Girl'  and 
those  Schubert  songs  ?  " 

His  fingers  felt  their  way  back  to  his  boyhood,  and 
when  he  ceased  playing,  he  stood  by  his  mother  a  moment, 
and  patted  her  cheeks  as  he  hummed  in  German  the  first 
two  lines  of  the  "  Lorelei,"  and  then  said,  "  We  have 
come  a  long  way  since  then  —  eh,  mother?  "  She  held  his 
hand  to  her  cheek  and  then  to  her  lips,  but  she  did  not 
reply.  He  repeated  it,  "  A  long,  long  way  from  the  little 
home  of  one  room  here ! "  After  a  pause  he  added, 
"Would  you  like  to  go  back?" 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  283 

A  tear  fell  on  the  hand  against  her  cheek.  He  felt  her 
jaw  quiver,  and  then  she  said,  "  Oh,  yes,  John  —  yes,  I 
believe  I  would." 

He  knew  she  did  not  care  for  his  wealth,  and  there  were 
many  things  about  his  achievements  that  he  felt  she  might 
misunderstand ;  her  attitude  often  puzzled  him.  So  he 
sat  a  moment  on  her  chair  arm,  and  said,  "  Well,  mother, 
I  have  done  my  best."  It  was  a  question  more  than  a 
protest. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  replied,  "  I  know  you  have  —  you  have 
done  your  best  —  your  very  best.  But  I  think  it  is  in 
your  blood." 

"What?  "he  asked. 

"  Oh,  all  this,"  she  answered ;  "  all  this  money-getting. 
I  am  foolish,  John,  but  some  way,  I  want  my  little  boy 
back  —  the  one  who  used  to  sit  with  me  so  long  ago,  and 
play  on  the  guitar  and  sing  4  Sleeping,  I  Dream,  Love.' 
I  don't  like  your  new  music,  John ;  it's  so  like  clanging 
cars,  and  crashing  hammers,  and  the  groans  of  men  at  toil." 

44  But  this  is  a  new  world,  mother  —  a  new  world  that  is 
different,"  protested  the  son,  impatiently. 

And  the  mother  answered  sadly  as  she  looked  up  at  him  : 
44 1  know,  dear  —  it  is  a  new  world ;  but  the  same  old  God 
moves  it;  and  the  same  faith  in  God  and  love  of  man 
move  men  that  always  have  moved  them,  and  always  will 
move  them ;  there  are  as  many  things  to  live  and  die  for 
now,  as  when  your  father  gave  up  his  life,  John  —  just  as 
many."  They  rocked  together  in  silence  —  the  boy  of 
forty  and  the  mother  of  sixty.  Finally  she  said,  "  John 
nie,  play  me  4  Ever  of  Thee  I'm  fondly  Thinking,'  won't 
you,  before  you  go?" 

He  sat  with  his  foot  on  the  soft  pedal  and  played  the 
old  love  song,  and  as  he  played  his  mother  wandered  over 
hills  he  had  never  seen,  through  fields  he  had  never  known, 
and  heard  a  voice  in  the  song  he  might  never  hear,  even 
in  his  dreams.  When  he  finished,  she  stood  beside  him 
and  cried  with  all  the  passion  her  years  could  summon : 
44  Oh,  John  —  John  —  it  will  come  out  some  way  —  some 
day.  It's  in  your  soul,  and  God  in  His  own  way  will 


284  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

bring  it  out."  He  did  not  understand  her  then,  and  it 
was  many  years  before  he  prayed  her  prayer. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  the  City  and  plunged  into  his 
work,  and  the  Ridge  and  its  people  and  the  prayers  of  his 
mother  became  to  him  only  as  a  dream  that  comes  in  the 
night  and  fades  in  the  day.  Even  the  shabby  figure  of 
Colonel  Martin  Culpepper,  with  his  market  basket  on  his 
arm,  waving  a  good-by  as  the  Barclay  private  car  pulled 
out  of  the  Sycamore  Ridge  depot,  disappeared  from  his 
mind,  though  that  pathetic  image  haunted  him  for  nearly 
a  hundred  miles  as  he  rode,  and  he  could  not  shake  it  off 
until  he  immersed  himself  in  the  roar  of  the  great  City. 
He  could  not  know  that  he  had  any  remote  relation  with 
the  worry  in  the  old  man's  eyes.  Nor  did  Martin  Cul 
pepper  try  to  shift  his  load  to  John.  He  knew  where  the 
blame  was,  and  he  tried  to  take  it  like  a  man.  But  in 
reckoning  the  colonel's  account,  may  not  something  be 
charged  off  to  the  account  of  John  Barclay,  who  to  save 
himself  and  accomplish  the  Larger  Good  —  which  meant 
v  the  establishment  of  his  own  fortunes  —  sent  Adrian 
Brownwell  in  those  days  in  the  seventies  with  the  money 
to  the  colonel,  not  so  much  to  help  the  colonel  as  to  save 
John  Barclay  ?  The  Larger  Good  is  a  slow,  vicious,  accumu 
lative  poison,  and  heaven  only  knows  when  it  will  come 
out  and  kill. 

It  was  a  week  after  the  pipe-organ  recital  at  the  church, 
when  Mary  Barclay,  doing  her  day's  marketing,  ran  into 
Colonel  Culpepper  standing  rather  forlornly  in  front  of 
McHurdie's  shop.  He  bowed  to  her  with  elaborate 
graciousness,  and  she  stopped  to  speak  with  him.  In  a 
moment  he  was  saying,  "  So  you  have  not  heard,  are  un 
aware,  entirely  ignorant,  in  point  of  fact,  of  my  misfor 
tunes  ?  "  She  assented,  and  the  colonel  went  on  :  "  Well, 
madam,  the  end  has  come ;  I  have  played  out  my  hand ;  I 
have  strutted  my  hour  upon  the  stage,  and  now  I  go  off. 
Old  Mart  Culpepper,  my  dear,  is  no  longer  the  leading 
^  citizen,  nor  our  distinguished  capitalist,  not  even  the 
hustling  real  estate  agent  of  former  days  —  just  plain  old 
Mart  Culpepper,  I  may  say.  He  who  was,  is  now  a  has* 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  285 

been,  —  just  an  old  man  without  a  business."  He  saw 
that  she  did  not  appreciate  what  had  happened,  and  he 
smiled  gently  and  said  :  "  Closed  up,  my  dear  madam.  A 
receiver  was  appointed  a  few  minutes  ago  for  the  Cul- 
pepper  Mortgage  Company,  and  I  gave  him  the  key. 
Failure  —  failure  —  "  he  repeated  the  word  bitterly  — 
"failure  is  written  over  the  door  of  this  life." 

Mary  Barclay  grasped  his  big  fat  hand  and  pressed  it, 
and  shook  her  head.  Something  in  her  throat  choked  her, 
and  she  could  not  speak  at  first.  The  two  stood  a  moment 
in  silence  before  the  woman  said  emphatically,  "No  — 
no  !  Martin  Culpepper,  God  is  keeping  your  books  !  " 

The  shabby  old  man  stood  uncovered,  a  smile  quivering 
about  his  eyes.  "Maybe  so,  Mary  Barclay,  maybe  so," 
he  said.  The  smile  fell  into  his  countenance  as  he  added, 
"  That  is  why  I  have  gone  so  long  without  a  settlement ; 
with  my  account  so  badly  overdrawn,  too."  Then  he 
turned  to  go  and  walked  as  lightly  down  the  street  as  a 
man  could  walk,  broken  before  his  time  with  the  weight 
of  a  humiliation  upon  him  and  a  fear  greater  than  his 
shame  burning  in  his  fluttering  old  heart. 

And  now  if  you  are  reading  this  story  to  be  in  the 
company  of  the  rich  Mr.  Barclay,  to  feel  the  madness  of 
his  millions,  to  enjoy  the  vain  delirium  of  his  power,  skip 
the  rest  of  this  chapter.  For  it  tells  of  a  shabby  time  in 
the  lives  of  all  of  the  threadbare  people  who  move  in  this 
tale.  Even  John  Barclay  sees  the  seams  and  basting 
threads  of  his  life  here,  and  as  for  the  others,  —  the  colonel 
and  Jake  and  the  general  and  Watts,  and  even  Molly,  — • 
what  do  these  people  mean  to  you,  these  common  people, 
in  their  old  clothes,  with  their  old  hearts  and  their  rusty 
sins  and  their  homely  sorrows?  Milord  and  his  lady  will 
not  scamper  across  these  pages ;  no  rooms  with  rich  ap 
pointments  will  gladden  your  eyes,  and  perhaps  in  the 
whole  book  you  will  not  find  a  man  in  evening  dress  nor 
a  woman  in  a  dinner  gown.  And  now  the  only  thing 
there  is  to  offer  is  Jake  Dolan,  aged  fifty-seven,  with  scanty, 
grizzled  hair,  sitting  in  his  shirt-sleeves  in  the  basement 
of  the  court-house,  with  the  canvas  cot  he  sleeps  on  for  a 


286  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

chair,  mending  his  blue  army  coat.  Beside  him  on  the 
bed  are  his  trousers,  thin,  almost  worn  through,  patched 
as  to  the  knees  and  as  to  other  important  places,  but  clean 
and  without  a  loose  thread  hanging  from  them.  Surely 
an  old  Irishman  mending  an  old  army  coat  under  a  dusty 
electric  light  bulb  in  the  basement  of  a  court-house, 
wherein  he  is  janitor  by  grace  of  the  united  demand  of 
Henry  Schnitzler  Post  of  the  G.A.R.  No.  432,  is  not 
a  particularly  inspiring  picture.  But  he  has  bitten  the 
last  thread  with  his  teeth,  and  is  putting  away  the  sewing 
outfit.  And  now  Mr.  Dolan,  from  the  drawer  of  a  little 
table  beside  the  cot,  —  a  table  with  Bob  Hendricks'  picture, 
framed  in  plush,  sitting  on  the  top, — now  Mr.  Dolan  takes 
from  the  drawer  a  tablet  of  writing  paper  printed  by  the 
county.  It  is  his  particular  pride,  that  writing  paper. 
For  upon  it  at  the  top  is  the  picture  of  the  new  one-hundred- 
thousand-dollar  court-house,  and  beside  the  court-house 
picture  are  these  words :  "  Office  of  Jacob  Dolan,  Custo 
dian  of  Public  Buildings  and  Grounds  of  Garrison 
County."  Mr.  Dolan  will  be  writing  a  letter,  and  so 
long  as  it  begins  with  "  Dear  Sir,"  and  nothing  more  en 
dearing,  surely  we  may  look  over  his  shoulder  while  he 
writes, — even  though  it  is  bad  form.  And  as  Mr.  Dolan 
will  be  writing  to  "Robert  Hendricks,  care  of  Cook's 
Hotel,  Cairo,  Egypt,"  —  which  he  spells  with  an  "i,"  but 
let  that  pass,  and  let  some  of  his  literary  style  and  con 
struction  pass  with  it,  —  and  as  he  will  be  writing  to  Mr. 
Hendricks,  perhaps  Miss  Nancy  may  do  well  to  go  sit  in 
the  corridor  and  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears  while  we  read. 
For  Mr.  Dolan  is  an  emotional  man,  and  he  is  breathing 
hard,  and  by  the  way  he  grabs  his  pen  and  jabs  it  into  the 
ink  one  can  see  that  he  is  angry. 

"  DEAR  SIR  (begins  Mr.  Dolan)  :  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  answer 
yours  of  this  date  from  New  York  and  would  have  written  you 
anyhow,  as  there  is  much  on  my  mind  and  I  would  cable  you,  but  I 
can't,  being  for  the  moment  short  of  funds.  I  write  to  say,  Robert, 
that  we  have  Mart  Culpepper  in  jail  —  right  across  the  hall.  He 
came  in  at  nine  o'clock  to-night,  and  the  damn  Pop  judge  put  his 
bail  at  $15,999  to  cover  his  alleged  shortage,  and  the  stinker  won't 
accept  us  old  boys '  on  the  bond  —  Phil  and  Watts  and  Os  and  the 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  287 

Company  ;  C  '  boys  I  could  get  before  the  judge  went  to  bed,  and  Gabe 
Carnine,  the  gut,  would  not  sign  —  would  not  sign  old  Mart's  bond, 
sir,  and  I  hope  to  be  in  hell  with  a  fishpole  some  day  poking  him 
down  every  time  his  slimy  fingers  get  on  the  rim  of  the  kettle.  But 
we'll  have  him  out  in  the  morning,  if  every  man  in  Garrison  County 
has  to  go  on  the  bond.  They  say  Mart  received  money  to  pay  four  or 
five  mortgages  due  to  a  Vermont  Bank,  and  they  sent  a  detective  here 
about  a  month  ago  and  worked  up  the  case,  and  closed  his  business 
to-day  and  waited  until  to-night  to  arrest  him.  I've  just  come  from 
Mart.  It's  hell.  Hoping  this  will  find  you  enjoying  the  same  I  beg 
my  dear  sir  to  sign  myself 

"Your  ob't  sYv't  J.  DOLAN." 

When  Jacob  Dolan  finished  his  letter,  he  addressed  the 
envelope  and  hurried  away  to  mail  it.  And  so  long  as 
we  are  here  in  the  court-house,  and  the  custodian  is  gone, 
would  you  like  to  step  in  and  see  Martin  Culpepper  across 
the  hall  ?  It  is  still  in  the  basement  now,  and  if  you  are 
quiet,  so  quiet  that  the  slipping  patter  of  a  rat's  foot  on 
the  floor  comes  to  you,  a  sound  as  of  a  faint  whining  will 
come  to  you  also.  There  —  now  it  comes  again.  No,  it 
is  not  a  dog  ;  it  is  a  man  —  a  man  in  his  agony.  Shall 
we  open  the  great  iron  door,  and  go  into  the  cell  room  ? 
Why,  not  even  you,  Miss  Nancy  —  not  even  you,  who  love 
tears  so  ?  You  would  not  see  much — only  a  man,  with 
his  coat  and  vest  off,  an  old  man  with  a  rather  shaggy,  ill- 
kept  chin  whisker  and  not  the  cleanest  shirt  in  the  world 
—  though  it  is  plaited,  and  once  was  a  considerable  gar 
ment.  And  the  man  wearing  it,  who  lies  prostrate  upon 
his  face,  once  was  a  considerable  man.  But  he  is  old 
now,  old  and  broken,  and  if  he  should  look  up,  as  you 
stepped  in  the  corridor  before  him,  you  would  see  a 
great  face  ripped  and  scarred  by  fear  and  guilt,  and  eyes 
that  look  so  piteously  at  you  —  eyes  of  a  man  who  cannot 
understand  why  the  blow  has  fallen,  surprised  eyes  with  a 
horror  in  them  ;  and  if  he  should  speak,  you  will  find  a 
voice  rough  and  mushy  with  asthma.  The  heart  that  has 
throbbed  so  many  nights  in  fear  and  the  breath  that  has 
been  held  for  so  many  footsteps,  at  last  have  turned  their 
straining  into  disease.  No  —  let's  not  go  in.  He  bade 
his  daughter  go,  and  would  not  see  his  wife,  and  they  have 


288  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

sent  to  the  City  for  his  son,  —  so  let  us  not  bother  him,  for 
to-morrow  he  will  be  out  on  bail.  But  did  you  hear  that 
fine,  trembling,  animal  whine  —  that  cry  that  wrenched 
itself  out  of  set  teeth  like  a  living  thing  ?  Come  on  —  let 
us  go  and  find  Jake,  and  if  he  is  taking  a  drink,  don't 
blame  him  too  much,  Miss  Nancy  —  how  would  you  like 
to  sleep  in  that  room  across  the  corridor  ? 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  two  hundred  men  had 
signed  the  bond  the  judge  required,  and  Martin  Cul- 
pepper  shambled  home  with  averted  eyes.  They  tried  to 
carry  him  on  their  shoulders,  thinking  it  would  cheer  him 
up ;  and  from  the  river  wards  of  the  town  scores  came  to 
give  him  their  hands.  But  he  shook  himself  away  from 
them,  like  a  great  whipped  dog,  and  walked  slowly  up  the 
hill,  and  turned  into  Lincoln  Avenue  alone. 

John  Barclay  heard  the  news  of  the  colonel's  trouble  as  he 
stepped  from  his  private  car  in  the  Sycamore  Ridge  yards 
that  morning,  and  Jane  went  to  the  Culpepper  home  with 
out  stopping  at  her  own.  That  afternoon,  Molly  Brown- 
well  knocked  at  Barclay's  office  door  in  the  mill,  and  went 
in  without  waiting  for  him  to  open  it.  She  was  pale  and 
haggard,  and  she  sat  down  before  he  could  speak  to  her. 

"  John,"  she  said  in  a  dead  voice  that  smote  his  heart, 
"  I  have  come  for  my  reward  now.  I  never  thought  I'd 
ask  it,  John,  but  last  night  I  thought  it  all  out,  and  I 
don't  believe  it's  begging." 

"  No,"  he  replied  quietly,  "  it's  not.     I  am  sure  —  " 

But  she  did  not  let  him  finish.  She  broke  in  with  : 
"  Oh,  I  don't  want  any  of  your  money;  I  want  my  own 
money  —  money  that  you  got  when  you  sold  me  into  bond 
age,  John  Barclay — do  you  remember  when?"  She 
cried  the  last  words  in  a  tremulous  little  voice,  and  then 
caught  herself,  and  went  on  before  he  could  put  into 
words  the  daze  in  his  face.  "  Let  me  tell  you  ;  do  you 
remember  the  day  you  called  me  up  into  your  office  and 
asked  me  to  hold  Adrian  in  town  to  save  the  wheat  com 
pany  ?  Yes,  you  do  —  you  know  you  do  !  And  you 
remember  that  you  played  on  my  love  for  Bob,  and  my 
duty  to  father.  Well,  I  saved  you,  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  did,  Molly,"  Barclay  replied. 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  289 

She  stared  a  moment  at  the  framed  pictures  of  mill 
designs  on  the  wall,  and  at  the  wheat  samples  on  the  long 
table  near  her,  and  did  not  speak;  nor  did  he.  She 
finally  broke  the  silence  :  "  Well,  I  saved  you,  but  what 
about  father  —  "  her  voice  broke  into  a  sob  —  "  and  Bob 
—  Jane  has  told  you  what  Bob  and  I  have  been  —  and 
what  about  me  —  what  have  you  taken  from  me  in  these 
twenty  years  ?  Oh,  John,  John,  what  a  fearful  wreck  we 
have  made  of  life  —  you  with  your  blind  selfishness,  and 
I  with  my  weakness  I  Did  you  know,  John,  that  the 
money  that  father  borrowed  that  day,  twenty  years  ago, 
of  Adrian,  to  lend  to  you,  is  the  very  money  that  sent  him 
to  jail  last  night?  I  guess  he  —  he  took  what  wasn't  his 
to  pay  it  back."  Her  face  twitched,  and  she  was  losing 
control  of  her  voice.  Barclay  stepped  to  the  door  and 
latched  it.  She  watched  him  and  shook  her  head  sadly. 
"  You  needn't  be  afraid,  John  —  I'm  not  going  to  make  a 
scene." 

44  It's  all  right,  Molly,"  said  Barclay.  "  I  want  to  help 
you — you  know  that.  I'm  sorry,  Molly  —  infinitely 
sorry." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then 
said  :  "  Yes,  John,  I'll  give  you  credit  for  that;  I  think 
you're  as  sorry  as  a  selfish  man  like  you  can  be.  But  are 
you  sorry  enough  to  go  to  jail  a  pauper,  like  father,  or 
wander  over  the  earth  alone,  like  Bob,  or  come  and  beg  for 
money,  like  me  ?  "  Then  she  caught  herself  quickly  and 
cried  :  "  Only  it's  not  begging,  John  —  it's  my  own  ;  it's 
the  price  you  got  when  you  sold  me  into  bondage  ;  it's 
the  price  of  my  soul,  and  I  need  it  now.  Those  people 
only  want  their  money  —  that  is  all." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  suppose  that  is  all  they  want." 
He  drummed  on  his  desk  a  moment  and  then  asked, 
"  Does  your  father  know  how  much  it  is  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  found  in  his  desk  at  the  house 
last  night  a  paper  on  which  he  had  been  figuring  —  poor 
father  —  all  the  night  before.  All  the  night  before  —  " 
she  repeated,  and  then  sobbed,  "  Poor  father  —  all  the 
night  before.  He  knew  it  was  coming.  He  knew  the 


290  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

detective  was  here.  He  told  me  to-day  that  the  sum  he 
had  there  was  correct.  It  is  sixteen  thousand  five  hun 
dred  and  forty-three  dollars.  But  he  doesn't  know  I'm 
here,  John.  I  told  him  I  had  some  money  of  my  own  — 
some  I'd  had  for  years  —  and  I  have  —  oh,  I  have,  John 
Barclay  —  I  have."  She  looked  up  at  him  with  the  pallid 
face  stained  with  fresh  tears  and  asked,  "  I  have  —  I 
have  —  haven't  I,  John,  haven't  I  ?  " 

He  put  his  elbows  on  the  desk  and  sank  his  head  in  his 
hands  and  sighed,  "Yes,  Molly  —  yes,  you  have." 

They  sat  in  silence  until  the  roar  of  the  waters  and  the 
murmur  of  the  wheels  about  them  came  into  the  room. 
Then  the  woman  rose  to  go.  "  Well,  John,"  she  said,  "  I ' 
suppose  one  shouldn't  thank  a  person  for  giving  her  her 
own  —  but  I  do,  John.  Oh,  it's  like  blood  money  to  me  — 
but  father —  I  can't  let  father  suffer." 

She  walked  to  the  door,  he  stepped  to  unlatch  it,  and 
she  passed  out  without  saying  good-by.  When  she  was 
gone,  he  slipped  the  latch,  and  sat  down  with  his  hands 
gripping  the  table  before  him.  As  he  sat  there,  he  looked 
across  the  years  and  saw  some  of  the  havoc  he  had  made. 
There  was  no  shirking  anything  that  he  saw.  A  footfall 
passing  the  door  made  him  start  as  if  he  feared  to  be 
caught  in  some  guilty  act.  Yet  he  knew  the  door  was 
locked.  He  choked  a  little  groan  behind  his  teeth,  and 
then  reached  for  the  top  of  his  desk,  pulled  down  the 
rolling  cover,  and  limped  quickly  out  of  the  room  —  as 
though  he  were  leaving  a  corpse.  What  he  saw  was  the 
ghost  of  the  Larger  Good,  mocking  him  through  the  veil 
of  the  past,  and  asking  him  such  questions  as  only  a  man's 
soul  may  hear  and  not  resent. 

He  walked  over  the  mill  for  a  time,  and  then  calling  his 
stenographers  from  their  room,  dictated  them  blind  and 
himself  dumb  with  details  of  a  deal  he  was  putting  through 
to  get  control  of  the  cracker  companies  of  the  country. 
When  he  finished,  the  sunset  was  glaring  across  the  water 
through  the  window  in  front  of  him,  and  he  had  laid  his 
ghost.  But  Molly  Brownwell  had  her  check,  and  her 
father  was  saved. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  291 

That  evening  the  colonel  sat  with  Watts  McHurdie, 
on  the  broad  veranda  of  the  Culpepper  home,  and  as  the 
moon  came  out,  General  Ward  wandered  up  the  walk  and 
Jake  Dolan  came  singing  down  the  street  about  "  the  relic 
of  old  dacincy  —  the  hat  me  father  wore."  Perhaps  he 
had  one  drink  in  him,  and  perhaps  two,  or  maybe  three, 
but  he  clicked  the  gate  behind  him,  and  seeing  the  three 
men  on  the  veranda,  he  called  out :  — 

"  Hi,  you  pig-stealing  Kansas  soldiers,  haven't  ye  heard 
the  war  is  over  ?  "  And  then  he  carolled :  "  Oh,  can't  get 
'em  up,  Oh,  can't  get  'em  up,  Oh,  can't  get  'em  up  in  the 
mornin'  —  Get  up,  you"  — but  the  rest  of  the  song,  being 
devoted  to  the  technical  affairs  of  war,  and  ending  with  a 
general  exhortation  to  the  soldier  to  "  get  into  your 
breeches,"  would  give  offence  to  persons  of  sensitive 
natures,  and  so  may  as  well  be  omitted  from  this  story. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  when  Dolan  came  on  the 
veranda.  The  general  had  just  tried  to  break  the  ice, 
but  Dolan  was  going  at  too  high  a  speed  to  be  checked. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  asked,  "  what  I  always  remember 
when  I  hear  that  call  ?  You  do  not.  I'll  tell  you.  'Twas 
the  morning  of  the  battle  of  Wilson's  Creek,  and  Mart  and 
me  was  sleeping  under  a  tree,  when  the  bugler  of  the 
Johnnies  off  somewhere  on  the  hill  he  begins  to  crow  that, 
and  it  wakes  Mart  up,  and  he  rolls  over  on  me  and  he 
says :  '  Jake,'  he  says,  or  maybe  'twas  me  says,  '  Mart,' 
says  I  — anyway,  one  of  us  says,  'Shut  up  your  gib,  you 
flannel-mouthed  mick,'  he  says, '  and  let  me  pull  my  dream 
through  to  the  place  where  I  find  the  money,'  he  says. 
And  I  says,  '  D'ye  know  what  I'm  goin'  to  do  when  I  get 
home  ?  '  says  I.  '  No,'  says  he,  still  keen  for  that  money ; 
*  no,'  says  he,  '  unless  it  is  you're  going  to  be  hanged  by 
way  of  diversion,'  he  says.  4  I'm  going  to  hire  a  bugler,' 
says  I.  4  What  fer  —  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints?' 
says  he.  '  Well,'  says  I,  4  I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  blow 
his  damn  horn  under  my  window  every  morning  at  five 
o'clock,'  I  says,  '  and  then  I'm  going  to  get  up  and  poke 
my  head  out  of  the  window  and  say  :  "  Mister,  you  can  get 
me  up  in  the  army,  but  on  this  occasion  would  you  be 


292  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

obliging  enough  to  go  to  hell " !  '  And  Mart,  seeing  that 
the  money  was  gone  from  his  dream,  he  turns  over  and 
wallops  me  with  the  blanket  till  I  was  merely  a  palpitating 
mass.  That  was  a  great  battle,  though,  boys  —  a  great 
battle." 

And  then  they  shouldered  arms  and  showed  how  fields 
were  won.  Boom  !  went  Sigel's  guns  out  of  the  past,  and 
crash!  came  the  Texas  cavalry,  and  the  whoop  of  the 
Louisiana  Pelicans  rang  in  their  ears.  They  marched  south 
after  Hindman,  and  then  came  back  with  Grant  to  Vicks- 
burg,  where  they  fought  and  bled  and  died.  The  general 
left  them  and  went  east,  where  he  "deployed  on  our 
right "  and  executed  flank  movements,  and  watched 
Pickett's  column  come  fling  itself  to  death  at  Gettysburg. 
And  Watts  McHurdie  rode  with  the  artillery  through  the 
rear  of  the  rebel  lines  at  Pittsburg  Landing,  and  when 
the  rebel  officer  saw  the  little  man's  bravery,  and  watched 
him  making  for  the  Union  lines  bringing  three  guns,  he 
waved  his  hat  and  told  his  soldiers  not  to  shoot  at  that 
boy.  The  colonel  took  a  stick  and  marked  out  on  the  floor 
our  position  at  Antietam,  and  showed  where  the  reserves 
were  supposed  to  be  and  how  the  enemy  masked  his  guns 
behind  that  hill,  and  we  planted  our  artillery  on  the  opposite 
ridge;  and  he  marched  with  the  infantry  and  lay  in  ambush 
while  the  enemy  came  marching  in  force  through  the  wood. 
In  time  Watts  McHurdie  was  talking  to  Lincoln  in  the 
streets  of  Richmond,  and  telling  for  the  hundredth  time 
what  Lincoln  said  of  the  song  and  how  he  had  sung  it. 
Bat  who  cares  now  what  Lincoln  said  ?  It  was  something 
kind,  you  may  be  sure,  with  a  tear  and  a  laugh  in  it,  and 
the  veterans  laughed,  while  their  eyes  grew  moist  as  they 
always  did  when  Watts  told  it.  Then  they  fell  to  carnage 
again  -a fierce  fight  against  time,  against  the  moment  when 
they  must  leave  their  old  companion  alone.  Up  hills  they 
charged  and  down  dales,  and  the  moon  rose  high,  and  cast 
its  shadow  to  the  eastward  before  they  parted.  First 
Dolan  edged  away,  and  then  the  general  went,  waving  his 
hand  military  fashion;  and  the  colonel  returned  the  salute. 
When  the  gate  had  clanged,  Watts  rose  to  go.  He  did  not 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  293 

speak,  nor  did  the  colonel.  Arm  in  arm,  they  walked 
down  the  steps  together,  and  halfway  down  the  garden 
path  the  colonel  rested  his  hand  on  the  little  man's  shoul 
der  as  they  walked  in  silence  At  the  gate  they  saw  each 
other's  tears,  and  the  little  man's  voice  failed  him  when  the 
colonel  said,  "Well,  good-by,  comrade  —  good  night." 
So  Watts  turned  and  ran,  while  the  colonel,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  manhood,  loosed  the  cords  of  his  sorrow  and 
stood  alone  in  the  moonlight  with  upturned  face,  swaying 
like  an  old  tree  in  a  storm. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

AND  now  those  who  have  avoided  the  gray  unpainted 
shame  of  these  unimportant  people  of  the  Ridge  may  here 
take  up  again  for  a  moment  the  trailing  clouds  of  glory 
that  shimmer  over  John  Barclay's  office  in  the  big  City. 
V  For  here  there  is  the  sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal 
of  great  worldly  power.  Here  sits  John  Barclay,  a  little 
gray-haired,  gray-clad,  lynx-eyed  man,  in  a  big  light 
room  at  the  corner  of  a  tower  high  over  the  City  in  the 
Corn  Exchange  Building,  the  brain  from  which  a  million 
nerves  radiate  that  run  all  over  the  world  and  move 
thousands  of  men.  Forty  years  before,  when  John  was 
playing  in  the  dust  of  the  road  leading  up  from  the  Syca 
more,  no  king  in  all  the  world  knew  so  much  of  the  day's 
doings  as  John  knows  now,  sitting  there  at  the  polished 
mahogany  table  with  the  green  blotting  paper  upon  it, 
under  the  green  vase  adorned  with  the  red  rose.  A  blight 
may  threaten  the  wheat  in  Argentine,  and  John  Barclay 
knows  every  cloud  that  sails  the  sky  above  that  wheat, 
and  when  the  cloud  bursts  into  rain  he  sighs,  for  it  means 
something  to  him,  though  heaven  only  knows  what,  and 
we  and  heaven  do  not  care.  But  a  dry  day  in  India  or 
a  wet  day  in  Russia  or  a  cloudy  day  in  the  Dakotas  are 
all  taken  into  account  in  the  little  man's  plans.  And  if 
princes  quarrel  and  kings  grow  weary  of  peace,  and  money 
bags  refuse  them  war,  John  Barclay  knows  it  and  puts 
the  episode  into  figures  on  the  clean  white  pad  of  paper 
before  him. 

It  is  a  privilege  to  be  in  this  office;  one  passes  three 
doors  to  get  here,  and  even  at  the  third  door  our  statesmen 
often  cool  their  toes.  Mr.  Barclay  is  about  to  admit  one 
now.  And  when  Senator  Myton  comes  in,  deferentially 
of  course,  to  tell  Mr.  Barclay  the  details  of  the  long  fight 
in  executive  session  which  ended  in  the  confirmation  by  the 

294 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  295 

senate  of  Lige  Bemis  as  a  federal  judge,  the  little  gray 
man  waves  the  senator  to  a  chair,  and  runs  his  pencil  up  a 
column  of  figures,  presses  a  button,  writes  a  word  on  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and  when  the  messenger  appears,  hands 
the  paper  to  him  and  says,  "  For  Judge  Bemis." 

"  I  have  just  dismissed  a  Persian  satrap,"  expands  Bar 
clay,  "  who  won't  let  his  people  use  our  binders  ;  that 
country  eventually  will  be  a  great  field  for  our  Mediterra 
nean  branch." 

Myton  is  properly  impressed.  For  a  man  who  can 
make  a  senator  out  of  Red  River  clay  and  a  federal  judge 
out  of  Lige  Bemis  is  a  superhuman  creature,  and  Myton 
does  not  doubt  Barclay's  power  over  satraps. 

When  the  business  of  the  moment  between  the  two  men 
is  done,  Barclay,  rampant  with  power,  says:  "Myton" 
(it  is  always  "  Myton,"  never  "  Senator,"  with  Barclay ; 
he  finds  it  just  as  well  to  let  his  inferiors  know  their 
relation  to  the  universe),  "Myton,  I  ran  across  a  queer 
thing  last  week  when  I  took  over  that  little  jerkwater 
New  England  coast  line.  The  Yankees  are  a  methodical 
lot  of  old  maids.  I  find  they  had  been  made  agents  of  a  lot 
of  the  big  fellows  —  insurance  people,  packing-houses,  and 
transcontinental  railroads  —  two  of  my  lines  were  paying 
them,  though  I'd  forgotten  about  it  until  I  looked  it  up 
—  and  the  good  old  sewing  society  had  card-indexed  the 
politics  of  the  United  States  —  the  whole  blessed  coun 
try,  by  state  and  congressional  districts.  I  took  over 
the  chap  who  runs  it,  and  I've  got  the  whole  kit  in  the 
offices  here  now.  It's  great.  If  a  man  bobs  up  for  some 
thing  in  Florida  or  Nebraska,  we  just  run  him  down  on 
the  card  index,  and  there  he  stands  —  everything  he  ever 
did,  every  interview  he  ever  gave,  every  lawsuit  he  ever 
had,  every  stand  he  ever  took  in  politics  —  right  there 
in  the  index,  in  an  envelope  ready  for  use,  and  all  the 
mean  things  ever  written  about  him.  I  simply  can't 
make  a  mistake  now  in  getting  the  wrong  kind  of  fellows 
in.  Commend  me  to  a  Yankee  or  a  Jap  for  pains.  I  can 
tell  you  in  five  minutes  just  what  influences  are  behind 
every  governor,  congressman,  senator,  judge,  most  of  the 


296  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

legislators  in  every  state,  the  federal  courts  clear  up  to 
the  Supreme  Court.  There  was  a  man  appointed  on  that 
court  less  than  a  dozen  years  ago  who  swapped  railroad 
receiverships  like  a  tin  peddler  with  his  senator  for  his 
job,  when  he  was  on  the  circuit  bench.  And  he  was  con 
siderable  of  a  judge  in  the  bean  country  for  a  time.  Just 
to  verify  my  index,  I  asked  Bemis  about  this  judge. 
4  Lige,'  I  said,  '  was  Judge  So-and-So  a  pretty  honest 
judge?'  4  Oh,  hell,'  says  Lige,  and  that  was  all  I  could 
get  out  of  him.  So  I  guess  they  had  him  indexed  right." 
And  Barclay  rattles  on;  he  has  become  vociferous  and 
loquacious,  and  seems  to  like  to  hear  the  roar  of  his  voice 
in  his  head.  The  habit  has  been  growing  on  him. 

But  do  not  laugh  at  the  blindness  of  John  Barclay,  sit 
ting  there  in  his  power,  admiring  himself,  boasting  in  the 
strength  of  his  card-index  to  Senator  Myton.  For  the 
tide  of  his  power  was  running  in,  and  soon  it  would  be 
high  tide  with  John  Barclay  —  high  tide  of  his  power, 
high  tide  of  his  fame,  high  tide  of  his  pride.  So  let  us 
watch  the  complacent  smile  crack  his  features  as  he  sits 
listening  to  Senator  Myton  :  "  Mr.  Barclay,  do  you  know, 
I  sometimes  think  that  Providence  manifests  itself  in 
minds  like  yours,  even  as  in  the  days  of  old  it  was  mani 
fest  in  the  hearts  of  the  prophets.  In  those  days  it  was 
piety  that  fitted  the  heart  for  higher  things ;  to-day  it  is 
business.  You  and  a  score  of  men  like  you  in  America 
are  intrusted  with  the  destiny  of  this  republic,  as  surely  as 
the  fate  of  the  children  of  Israel  was  in  the  hands  of 
Moses  and  Aaron  !  " 

Barclay  closed  his  eyes  a  moment,  in  contemplation  of 
the  figure,  and  then  broke  out  in  a  roaring  laugh,  "  Hanno 
is  a  god  !  Hanno  is  a  god  !  —  get  out  of  here,  Henry 
Myton,  —  get  out  of  here,  I  say  —  this  is  my  busy  day," 
and  he  laughed  the  young  senator  out  of  the  room.  But 
he  sat  alone  in  his  office  grinning,  as  over  and  over  in  his 
mind  his  own  words  rang,  "  Hanno  is  a  god  !  "  And  the 
foolish  parrot  of  his  other  self  cackled  the  phrase  in  his 
soul  for  days  and  days ! 

It  is  our  high  privilege  thus  to  stand  close  by  and  watch 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  297 

the  wheels  of  the  world  go  around.  In  those  days  of  the 
late  nineties  Barclay  travelled  up  and  down  the  earth 
so  much  in  his  private  car  that  Jane  used  to  tell  Molly 
Brownwell  that  living  with  John  was  like  being  a  travel 
ling  man's  wife.  But  Jane  did  not  seem  to  appreciate  her 
privilege.  She  managed  to  stay  at  home  as  much  as  pos 
sible,  and  sometimes  he  took  the  Masons  along  for  com 
pany.  Mrs.  Mason  gloried  in  it,  and  lived  at  the  great 
hotels  and  shopped  at  the  highest-priced  antique  stores  to 
her  heart's  delight.  Lycurgus',  joy  was  in  being  inter 
viewed,  and  the  Barclay  secretaries  got  so  that  they  could 
edit  the  Mason  interviews  and  keep  out  the  poison,  and  let 
the  old  man  swell  and  swell  until  the  people  at  home  thought 
he  must  surely  burst  with  importance  at  the  next  town. 

One  day  in  the  nineties  Barclay  appropriated  a  half-mill 
ion  dollars  to  advertise  "  Barclay's  Best "  and  a  cracker 
that  he  was  pushing.  When  the  man  who  placed  the 
business  in  the  newspaper  had  gone,  Barclay  sat  looking 
out  of  the  window  and  said  to  his  advertising  manager  : 
"  I've  got  an  idea.  Why  should  I  pay  a  million  dollars  to 
irresponsible  newspapers  ?  I  won't  do  it. " 

"  But  we  must  advertise,  Mr.  Barclay  —  you've  proved 
it  pays." 

"  Yes,"  he  returned,  "  you  bet  it  pays,  and  I  might  just  as 
well  get  something  out  of  it  besides  advertising.  Take  this ; 
make  five  copies  of  it;  I'll  give  you  the  addresses  later." 
Barclay  squared  himself  to  a  stenographer  to  dictate  :  — 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  I  spend  a  million  dollars  a  year  advertising  grain  prod 
ucts;  you  and  the  packers  doubtless  spend  that  much  advertising  your 
products  and  by-products ;  the  railroads  spend  as  much  more,  and  the 
Oil  people  probably  half  as  much  more.  Add  the  steel  products  and 
the  lumber  products,  and  we  have  ten  million  dollars  going  into  the 
press  of  this  country.  In  a  crisis  we  cannot  tell  how  these  newspapers 
will  treat  us.  I  think  we  should  organize  so  that  we  will  know  exactly 
where  we  stand.  Therefore  it  is  necessary  absolutely  to  control  the 
trade  advertising  of  this  country.  A  company  to  take  over  the  five 
leading  advertising  agencies  could  be  formed,  for  half  as  much  as  we 
spend  every  year,  and  we  could  control  nine-tenths  of  the  American 
trade  advertising.  We  could  then  put  an  end  to  any  indiscriminate 
mobbing  of  corporations  by  editors.  I  will  be  pleased  to  hear  from 
you  further  upon  this  subject." 


298  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

A  day  or  two  later,  when  the  idea  had  grown  and  rami 
fied  itself  in  his  mind,  he  talked  it  all  out  to  Jane  and 
exclaimed,  "  How  will  old  Phil  Ward's  God  manage 
to  work  it  out,  as  he  says,  against  that  proposition? 
Brains,"  continued  Barclay,  "brains  —  that's  what  counts 
in  this  world.  You  can't  expect  the  men  who  dominate 
this  country  —  who  make  its  wealth,  and  are  responsible 
for  its  prosperity,  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  lot  of  long-nosed 
reformers  who  don't  know  how  to  cash  their  own  checks." 

How  little  this  rich  man  knew  of  the  world  about  him ! 
How  circumscribed  was  his  vision  I  With  all  his  goings 
up  and  down  the  earth,  with  all  of  his  great  transactions, 
with  all  of  his  apparent  power,  how  little  and  sordid  was 
his  outlook  on  life.  For  he  thought  he  was  somebody  in 
this  universe,  some  one  of  importance,  and  in  his  scheme 
of  things  he  figured  out  a  kind  of  partnership  between  him 
self  and  Providence  —  a  partnership  to  run  the  world  in 
the  interests  of  John  Barclay,  and  of  course,  wherever 
possible,  with  reasonable  dividends  to  Providence. 

But  a  miracle  was  coming  into  the  world.  In  the  un- 
der-consciousnesses  of  men,  sown  God  only  knows  how  and 
when  and  where,  sown  in  the  weakness  of  a  thousand  blind 
prophets,  the  seeds  of  righteous  wrath  at  greed  like  John 
Barclay's  were  growing  during  all  the  years  of  his  triumph. 
Men  scarcely  knew  it  themselves.  Growth  is  so  simple 
and  natural  a  process  that  its  work  is  done  before  its 
presence  is  known.  And  so  this  arrogant  man,  this  miser 
able,  little,  limping,  brass-eyed,  leather-skinned  man,  looked 
out  at  the  world  around  him,  and  did  not  see  the  change 
that  was  quickening  the  hearts  of  his  neighbours. 

And  yet  change  was  in  everything  about  him.  A  thou 
sand  years  are  as  but  a  watch  in  the  night,  and  tick,  took, 
tick,  tock,  went  the  great  clock,  and  the  dresses  of  little 
Jeanette  Barclay  slipped  down,  down,  down  to  her  shoe- 
tops,  and  as  the  skirts  slipped  down  she  went  up.  And 
before  her  father  knew  it  her  shoe-tops  sank  out  of  sight, 
and  she  was  a  miss  at  the  last  of  her  teens.  But  he  still 
gave  her  his  finger  when  they  walked  out  together,  though 
she  was  head  and  shoulders  above  him. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  299 

One  day  when  she  led  him  to  the  Banner  office  to  buy 
some  fancy  programmes  for  a  party  she  was  giving,  he  saw 
her  watching  young  Neal  Ward,  —  youngest  son  of  the 
general,  —  who  was  sitting  at  a  reporter's  desk  in  the  office, 
and  the  father's  quick  eyes  saw  that  she  regarded  the 
youth  as  a  young  man.  For  she  talked  so  obviously  for 
the  Ward  boy's  benefit  that  her  father,  when  they  went 
out  of  the  printing-office,  took  a  furtive  look  at  his 
daughter  and  sighed  and  knew  what  her  mother  had 
known  for  a  year. 

"  Jeanette,"  he  said  that  night  at  dinner,  "  where's  my 
shot-gun  ?  "  When  she  told  him,  he  said  :  "  After  dinner 
you  get  it,  load  it  with  salt,  and  put  it  in  the  corner  by 
the  front  door."  Then  he  added  to  the  assembled  family: 
"For  boys  —  dirty-faced,  good-for-nothing,  long-legged 
boys  I  I'm  going  to  have  a  law  passed  making  an  open 
season  for  boys  in  this  place  from  January  first  until 
Christmas." 

Jeanette  dimpled  and  blushed,  the  family  smiled,  and 
her  mother  said :  "  Well,  John,  there'll  be  a  flock  of  them 
at  Jeanette's  party  next  week  for  you  to  practise  on.  All 
the  boys  and  girls  in  town  are  coming." 

And  after  dessert  was  served  the  father  sat  chuckling" 
and  grinning  and  grunting,  "  Boys  —  boys,"  and  at  inter 
vals,  "  Measly  little  milk-eyed  kids,"  and  again  "  Boys  — 
boys,"  while  the  family  nibbled  at  its  cheese. 

Those  years  when  the  nineteenth  century  was  nearing 
its  close  and  when  the  tide  of  his  fortunes  was  running 
in,  bringing  him  power  and  making  him  mad  with  it, 
were  years  of  change  in  Sycamore  Ridge  —  in  the  old  as 
well  as  in  the  young.  In  those  years  the  lilacs  bloomed 
on  in  the  Culpepper  yard;  and  John  Barclay  did  not  know 
it,  though  forty  years  before  Eilen  Culpepper  had  guarded 
the  first  blossoms  from  those  bushes  for  him.  Miss  Lucy, 
his  first  ideal,  went  to  rest  in  those  years  while  the  boom 
ing  tide  was  running  in,  and  he  scarcely  knew  it.  Mrs. 
Culpepper  was  laid  beside  Ellen  out  on  the  Hill ;  and  he  hardly 
realized  it,  though  no  one  in  all  the  town  had  watched 
him  growing  into  worldly  success  with  so  kindly  an  eye 


300  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

as  she.  But  the  tide  was  roaring  in,  and  John  Barclay's 
whole  consciousness  was  turned  toward  it ;  the  real  things 
of  life  about  him,  he  did  not  see  and  could  not  feel. 
And  so  as  the  century  is  old  the  booming  tide  is  full,  and 
John  Barclay  in  his  power  —  a  bubble  in  the  Divine  con 
sciousness,  a  mere  vision  in  the  real  world  —  stands  stark 
mad  before  his  phantasm,  dreaming  that  it  is  all  real,  and 
chattering  to  his  soul,  "  Hanno  is  a  god." 

And  now  we  must  leave  John  Barclay  for  the  moment, 
to  explain  why  Neal  Dow  Ward,  son  of  General  Philemon 
Ward,  made  his  first  formal  call  at  the  Barclays'.  It  can 
not  be  gainsaid  that  young  Mr.  Ward,  aged  twenty-one,  a 
senior  at  Ward  University,  felt  a  tingle  in  his  blood  that  day 
when  he  met  Miss  Jeanette  Barclay,  aged  eighteen,  and  home 
for  the  spring  vacation  from  the  state  university;  and  seeing 
her  for  the  first  time  with  her  eyes  and  her  hair  and  her 
pretty,  strong,  wide  forehead  poking  through  the  cocoon 
of  gawky  girlhood,  created  a  distinct  impression  on  young 
Mr.  Ward. 

But  in  all  good  faith  it  should  be  stated  that  he  did  not 
make  his  first  formal  call  at  the  Barclays'  of  his  own  ac 
cord;  for  his  sister,  Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton  Ward,  took  him. 
She  came  home  from  the  Culpeppers'  just  before  supper, 
laughing  until  she  was  red  in  the  face.  And  what  she 
heard  at  the  Culpeppers',  let  her  tell  in  her  own  way  to  the 
man  of  her  heart.  For  Lizzie  was  her  father's  child;  the 
four  other  Ward  girls,  Mary  Livermore,  Frances  Willard, 
Belva  Lockwood,  and  Helen  Gougar,  had  climbed  to  the 
College  Heights  and  had  gone  to  Ward  University,  and 
from  that  seat  of  learning  had  gone  forth  in  the  world  to 
teach  school.  Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton  Ward  had  remained 
in  the  home,  after  her  mother's  death  filling  her  mother's 
vacant  place  as  well  as  a  daughter  may. 

"  Well,  father,"  said  the  daughter,  as  she  was  putting 
the  evening  meal  on  the  table,  addressing  the  general,  who 
sat  reading  by  the  window  in  the  dining  room,  "  you 
should  have  been  at  the  Culpeppers'  when  the  colonel 
came  home  and  told  us  his  troubles.  It  seems  that  Nellie 
McHurdie  is  going  to  make  Watts  run  for  sheriff  —  for 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  301 

sheriff,  father.  Imagine  Watts  heading  a  posse,  or  lock 
ing  any  one  up  !  And  Watts  has  passed  the  word  to  the 
colonel,  and  he  has  passed  it  to  Molly  and  me,  and  I  am 
to  see  Mrs.  Barclay,  and  she  is  to  see  Mrs.  Carnine  to 
morrow  morning,  and  they  are  all  to  set  to  work  on  Nellie 
and  get  her  to  see  that  it  won't  do.  Poor  Watts  —  the 
colonel  says  he  is  terribly  wrought  up  at  the  prospect." 

The  general  folded  his  paper  and  smiled  as  he  said: 
44  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  Watts  was  a  brave  soldier.  He 
would  make  a  good  enough  sheriff ;  but  I  suppose  he 
doesn't  really  care  for  it." 

"  Why,  no,  of  course  not,  father  —  why  should  he  ?  " 
asked  the  daughter.  "  Anyhow,  I  want  you  to  make  Neal 
go  down  to  Barclays'  with  me  to-night  to  talk  it  over 
with  Jane.  Neal,"  she  called  to  the  young  man  who  was 
sitting  on  the  porch  with  his  book  on  his  knee,  "  Neal,  I 
want  you  to  go  to  Barclays'  with  me  to-night.  Come  in 
now,  supper's  ready." 

And  so  it  happened  that  Neal  Dow  Ward  made  his  first 
call  on  Jeanette  Barclay  with  his  sister,  and  they  all  sat 
on  the  porch  together  that  fine  spring  evening,  with  the 
perfume  of  the  lilacs  in  the  air ;  and  it  happened  naturally 
enough  that  the  curious  human  law  of  attraction  which 
unites  youth  should  draw  the  chairs  of  the  two  young 
people  together  as  they  talked  of  the  things  that  interest 
youth  —  the  parties  and  the  ball-games  and  the  fraterni 
ties  and  sororities,  and  the  freshman  picnic  and  the  senior 
grind ;  while  the  chairs  of  the  two  others  drew  together 
as  they  talked  of  the  things  which  interest  women  in  mid 
dle  life  —  the  affairs  of  the  town,  the  troubles  of  Watts 
McHurdie,  the  bereavement  of  the  Culpeppers,  the  scarcity 
of  good  help  in  the  kitchen,  the  popularity  of  Max  Nordau's 
"  Social  Evolution,"  and  the  fun  in  "  David  Harum."  Nor  is 
it  strange  that  after  the  girl  had  shown  the  boy  her  Pi  Phi 
pin,  and  he  had  shown  her  his  Phi  Delta  shield,  they  should 
fall  to  talking  of  the  new  songs,  and  that  they  should  slip 
into  the  big  living  room  of  the  Barclay  home,  lighted  by 
the  electric  lamps  in  the  hall,  and  that  she  should  sit  down 
to  the  piano  to  show  him  how  the  new  song  went.  And  if 


302  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

the  moonlight  fell  across  the  piano,  and  upon  her  face  as 
she  sang  the  little  Irish  folk-song,  all  in  minors,  with  her 
high,  trembling,  half-formed  notes  in  the  upper  register, 
and  if  she  flushed  and  looked  up  abashed  and  had  to  be 
teased  to  go  on,  —  not  teased  a  great  deal,  but  a  little,  — 
will  you  blame  the  young  man  if  he  forgot  for  a  moment 
that  her  father  was  worth  such  a  lot  of  money,  and  thought 
only  that  she  was  a  beautiful  girl,  and  said  so  with  his 
eyes  and  face  and  hands  in  the  pretty  little  pause  that 
followed  when  she  ceased  singing  ?  And  if  to  hide  her 
confusion  when  her  heart  knew  what  he  thought,  she  put 
one  foot  on  the  loud  pedal  of  the  piano  and  began  singing 
"O  Margery,  O  Margery,"  and  he  sang  with  her,  and  if 
they  thrilled  just  a  little  as  their  voices  blended  in  the  rol 
licking  song — what  of  it?  What  of  it?  Was  it  not 
natural  that  lilacs  should  grow  in  April  ?  Was  it  not 
natural  that  Watts  McHurdie  should  dread  the  white 
light  that  beats  upon  the  throne  of  the  sheriff's  office  ? 
Was  it  not  natural  that  he  should  turn  to  women  for  pro 
tection  against  one  of  their  sex,  and  that  the  women  plot 
ting  for  him  should  have  a  boy  around  and  having  a  boy 
around  where  there  is  a  girl  around,  and  spring  around 
and  lilacs  around  and  a  moon  and  music  and  joy  around,  — 
what  is  more  natural  in  all  this  world  than  that  in  the  fire 
struck  by  the  simple  joy  of  youth  there  should  be  the 
flutter  of  unseen  wings  around,  and  when  the  two  had 
finished  singing,  with  something  passing  between  their 
hearts  not  in  the  words,  what  is  more  natural  than  that 
the  girl,  half  frightened  at  the  thrill  in  her  soul,  should 
say  timidly  :  — 

"I  think  they  will  miss  us  out  there  —  don't  you  ?"  as- 
she  rose  from  the  piano. 

And  if  you  were  a  boy  again,  only  twenty-one,  to  whom 
millions  of  money  meant  nothing,  would  you  not  catch  the 
blue  eyes  of  the  girl  as  she  looked  up  at  you,  in  the  twi 
light  of  the  big  room,  and  answer,  "  All  right,  Jeanette  "  ? 
Certainly  if  you  had  known  a  girl  all  your  life,  you  would 
call  her  by  her  first  name,  if  her  father  were  worth  a  billion* 
and  would  you  not  continue,  emboldened  some  way  by  not 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  303 

being  frowned  upon  for  calling  her  Jeanette,  though  she 
would  have  been  astonished  if  you  had  said  Miss  Barclay  — 
astonished  and  maybe  a  little  fearful  of  your  sincerity — • 
would  you  not  continue,  after  a  little  pause,  repeating  your 
words,  "  All  right,  Jeanette  —  I  suppose  so  —  but  I  don't 
care  —  do  you  ? "  as  you  followed  her  through  the  door 
back  to  the  moon-lit  porch? 

And  as  you  walked  home,  listening  to  your  elder  sister, 
would  you  not  have  time  and  inclination  to  wonder  from 
what  remote  part  of  this  beautiful  universe,  from  what 
star  or  what  fairy  realm,  that  creature  came,  whose  hair 
you  pulled  yesterday,  whose  legs  seem  to  have  been  covered 
with  long  skirts  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  whose  un 
related  features  by  some  magic  had  sloughed  off,  leaving  a 
beautiful  face  ?  Would  you  not  think  these  things,  good 
kind  sir,  when  you  were  twenty-one  —  even  though  to-day 
they  seem  highly  improbable  thoughts  for  any  one  to  have 
who  was  not  stark  mad?  But  if  we  were  not  all  stark  mad 
sometimes,  how  would  the  world  go  round?  If  we  were 
not  all  mad  sometimes,  who  would  make  our  dreams  come 
true?  How  would  visions  in  thin  air  congeal  into  facts, 
how  would  the  aspirations  of  the  race  make  history?  And 
if  we  were  all  sane  all  the  time,  how  would  the  angels  ever 
get  babies  into  the  world  at  all,  at  all  ? 


CHAPTER   XXII 

"  SPEAKING  of  lunatics,"  said  Mr.  Dolan  to  Mr.  Hen- 
dricks  one  June  night,  a  few  weeks  after  the  women  had 
persuaded  Mrs.  McHurdie  not  to  drag  the  poet  into 
politics, — "  speaking  of  lunatics,  you  may  remember  that  I 
was  born  in  Boston,  and  'twas  my  duty  as  a  lad  to  drive 
the  Cambridge  car,  and  many  a  time  I  have  heard  Mr. 
Holmes  the  poet  and  Mr.  Emerson  the  philosopher  dis 
cussing  how  the  world  was  made  ;  whether  it  was  objective 
or  subjective,  —  which  I  take  it  to  mean  whether  the  world 
is  in  the  universe  or  only  in  your  eye.  One  fine  winter 
night  we  were  waiting  on  a  switch  for  the  Boston  car, 
when  Mr.  Holmes  said  to  Mr.  Emerson  :  4  What,'  says  he, 
'would  you  think  if  Jake  Dolan  driving  this  car  should 
come  in  and  say,  "Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  but  the  moon  I 
see  this  moment  is  not  some  millions  of  miles  away,  but 
entirely  in  my  own  noddle?  "  '  I'd  think,'  says  the  great 
philosopher,  never  blinking,  '  that  Mr.  Dolan  was  drunk,' 
says  he.  And  there  the  discussion  ended,  but  it  has  been 
going  on  in  my  head  ever  since.  Here  I  am  a  man  climb 
ing  up  my  sixties,  and  when  have  I  seen  the  moon  ?  Once 
walking  by  this  very  creek  here  trying  to  get  me  cour 
age  up  to  put  me  arm  around  her  that  is  now  Mary 
Carnine  ;  once  with  me  head  poked  up  close  to  the  heads 
of  Watts  McHurdie,  Gabe  Carnine,  and  Philemon  Ward, 
serenading  the  girls  under  the  Thayer  House  window  the 
night  before  we  left  for  the  army.  And  again  to-night, 
sitting  here  on  the  dam,  listening  to  the  music  coming 
down  the  mill-pond.  Did  you  notice  them,  Robert  —  the 
young  people  —  Phil  Ward's  boy,  and  John  Barclay's  girl, 
and  Mary  Carnine's  oldest,  and  Oscar  Fernald's  youngest, 
with  their  guitars  and  mandolins,  piling  into  the  boats  and 
rowing  up  stream?  And  now  they're  singing  the  songs 
we  sang  —  to  their  mothers,  God  bless  'em  —  the  other 

304 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  305 

day  before  these  children  were  born  or  thought  of,  and 
now  I  sit  here  an  old  man  looking  at  the  moon." 

uBut  is  it  the  moon?"  he  went  on  after  a  long  silence, 
puffing  at  his  pipe.  "If  the  moon  is  off  there,  three  or 
thirty  or  three  hundred  million  miles  away  in  the  sky, 
where  has  it  been  these  forty  years?  I've  not  seen  it. 
And  yet  here  she  pops  out  of  my  memory  into  my  eye, 
and  if  I  say  the  moon  has  always  been  in  my  eye,  and  is 
still  in  my  eye,  Mr.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  says  I'm 
drunk.  But  does  that  settle  the  question  of  who's  got 
the  moon  —  me  or  the  cosmos  —  as  the  poets  call  it  ?  " 
After  that  the  two  men  smoked  in  silence,  and  as  Hen- 
dricks  threw  away  the  butt  of  his  cigar,  Dolan  said,  "  'Tis 
a  queer,  queer  world,  Robert  —  a  queer,  queer  world." 

Now  do  not  smile  at  Mr.  Dolan,  gentle  reader,  for  Adam 
must  have  thought  the  same  thing,  and  philosophy  has 
been  able  to  say  nothing  more  to  the  point. 

It  is  indeed  a  queer,  queer  world,  and  our  blindness  is 
the  queerest  thing  in  it.  Here  a  few  weeks  later  sit  John 
and  Jane  Barclay  on  the  terrace  before  their  house  one 
June  night,  listening  to  singing  on  the  water.  Suddenly 
they  realize  that  there  is  youth  in  the  world  — yet  there 
has  been  singing  on  the  mill-pond  ever  since  it  was  built. 
It  has  been  the  habitat  of  lovers  for  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
this  mill-pond,  yet  Jane  and  John  Barclay  have  not  known 
it,  and  not  until  their  own  child's  voice  came  up  to  them, 
singing  "  Juanita,"  did  they  realize  that  the  song  had  not 
begun  anew  after  its  twenty  years'  silence  in  their  own 
hearts,  but  always  had  been  on  the  summer  breeze.  And 
this  is  strange,  too,  considering  how  rich  and  powerful  John 
Barclay  is  and  how  by  the  scratch  of  his  pen,  he  might  set 
men  working  by  the  thousands  for  some  righteous  cause. 
Yet  so  it  is;  for  with  all  the  consciousness  of  great  power, 
with  all  the  feeling  of  unrestraint  that  such  power  gives  a 
man,  driving  him  to  think  he  is  a  kind  of  god,  John  Bar 
clay  was  only  a  two-legged  man,  with  a  limp  in  one  foot, 
and  a  little  mad  place  in  his  brain,  wherein  he  kept  the 
sense  of  his  relation  to  the  rest  of  this  universe.  And  as 
he  sat,  blind  to  the  moon,  dreaming  of  a  time  when  he 


306  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

would  control  Presidents  and  dominate  courts  if  they 
crossed  his  path,  out  on  the  mill-pond  under  an  elm  tree 
that  spread  like  a  canopy  upon  the  water,  a  boy,  letting  the 
oars  hang  loosely,  was  playing  the  mandolin  to  a  girl  —  a 
pretty  girl  withal,  blue  as  to  eyes,  fair  as  to  hair,  strong 
as  to  mouth  and  chin,  and  glorious  as  to  forehead  —  who 
leaned  back  in  the  boat,  played  with  the  overhanging 
branches,  and  listened  and  looked  at  the  moon,  and  let 
God's  miracle  work  unhindered  in  her  heart.  And  all 
up  and  down  those  two  miles  of  mill-pond  were  other 
boats  and  other  boys  and  other  maidens,  and  as  they  chatted 
and  sang  and  sat  in  the  moonlight,  there  grew  in  their 
hearts,  as  quietly  as  the  growing  of  the  wheat  in  the  fields, 
that  strange  marvel  of  life,  that  keeps  the  tide  of  humanity 
ceaselessly  flowing  onward.  And  it  is  all  so  simply  done 
before  our  eyes,  and  in  our  ears,  that  we  forget  it  is  so 
baffling  a  mystery. 

Now  let  us  project  our  astral  bodies  into  the  living  room 
of  the  Barclay  home,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Barclay 
are  away  in  Boston,  and  only  John  Barclay's  mother  and 
his  daughter  are  in  Sycamore  Ridge;  and  let  us  watch  a 
young  man  of  twenty-one  and  a  young  woman  of  eighteen 
dispose  of  a  dish  of  fudge  together.  Fudge,  it  may  be  ex 
plained  to  the  unsophisticated,  is  a  preparation  of  chocolate, 
sugar,  and  cream,  cooked,  cooled,  and  cut  into  squares.  As 
our  fathers  and  mothers  pulled  taffy,  as  our  grandfathers 
and  grandmothers  conjured  with  maple  sugar,  and  as  their 
parents  worked  the  mysterious  spell  with  some  witchery  of 
cookery  to  this  generation  unknown,  so  is  fudge  in  these 
piping  times  the  worker  of  a  strange  witcher}^  Observe: 
Through  a  large  room,  perhaps  forty  feet  one  way  and 
twenty-five  feet  the  other  way,  flits  a  young  woman  in  the 
summer  twilight.  She  goes  about  humming,  putting  a 
vase  in  place  here,  straightening  a  picture  there,  kicking 
down  a  flapping  rug,  or  rearranging  a  chair;  then  she  sits 
down  and  turns  on  an  electric  light  and  pretends  to  read. 
But  she  does  not  read  ;  the  light  shows  her  something  else 
in  the  room  that  needs  attention,  and  she  turns  to  that. 
Then  she  sits  down  again,  and  again  goes  humming  about 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  307 

the  room.  Suddenly  the  young  woman  rises  and  hurries 
out  of  the  room,  and  a  footstep  is  heard  on  the  porch,  out 
side.  A  bell  tinkles,  and  a  maid  appears,  and  — 

"Yes,"  she  says.  "I'll  see  if  Miss  Jeanette  is  at 
home!" 

And  then  a  rustle  of  skirts  is  heard  on  the  stairway 
and  Miss  Jeanette  enters  with  :  "  Why,  Neal,  you  are  an 
early  bird  this  evening  —  were  you  afraid  the  worm 
would  escape  ?  Well,  it  won't ;  it's  right  here  on  the 
piano." 

The  .young  man's  eyes,  —  good,  clear,  well-set,  dark 
eyes  that  match  his  brown  hair ;  eyes  that  speak  from 
the  heart,  —  note  how  they  dwell  upon  every  detail  of  the 
opposing  figure,  caressing  with  their  shy  surreptitious 
glances  the  girl's  hair,  her  broad  forehead,  her  lips ;  ob 
serve  how  they  flit  back  betimes  to  those  ripe  red  lips, 
like  bees  that  hover  over  a  flower  trembling  in  the  wind; 
how  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  play  about  the  strong 
chin,  and  the  bewitching  curves  of  the  neck  and  shoul 
ders,  and  rise  again  to  the  hair,  and  again  steal  over  the 
face,  to  the  strong  shoulders,  and  again  hurry  back  to  the 
face  lest  some  feature  fade.  This  is  not  staring — it  is 
done  so  quickly,  so  furtively,  so  deftly  withal  as  the 
minutes  fly  by,  while  the  lips  and  the  teeth  chatter  on, 
that  the  stolen  honey  of  these  glances  is  stored  away 
in  the  heart's  memory,  all  unknown  to  him  who  has 
gathered  it. 

An  hour  has  passed  now,  while  we  have  watched  the 
restless  eyes  at  their  work,  and  what  has  passed  with  the 
hour?  Nothing,  ladies  and  gentlemen  —  nothing;  gib 
ber,  chatter,  giggles,  and  squeals  —  that  is  all.  Grandma 
Barclay  above  stairs  has  her  opinion  of  it,  and  wonders 
how  girls  can  be  so  addle-pated.  In  her  day  —  but  who 
ever  lived  long  enough  or  travelled  far  enough  or  in 
quired  widely  enough  to  find  one  single  girl  who  was  as 
wise,  or  as  sedate,  or  as  industrious,  or  as  meek,  or  as 
gentle,  or  as  kind  as  girls  were  in  her  grandmother's  day? 
No  wonder  indeed  that  grandmothers  are  all  married  — • 
for  one  could  hardly  imagine  the  young  men  of  that  day 


308  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

overlooking  such  paragons  of  virtue  and  propriety  as  lived 
in  their  grandmothers'  days.  Fancy  an  old  maid  grand 
mother  with  all  those  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  that 
girls  had  in  their  grandmothers'  days  ! 

So  the  elder  Mrs.  Barclay  in  her  room  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  hears  what  "he  said,"  uhe  said  he  said,"  and 
what  "she  said  she  said,"  and  what  "we  girls  did,"  and 
what  "you  boys  ought  to  do,"  and  what  "would  be  per 
fectly  lovely,"  and  what  "  would  be  a  lot  of  fun !  "  and 
so  grandmother,  good  soul,  grows  drowsy,  closes  her  door, 
and  goes  to  bed.  She  does  not  know  that  they  are  about 
to  sit  down  together  on  a  sofa  —  not  a  long,  straight,  cold, 
formal  affair,  but  a  small,  rather  snuggly  sofa,  with  the 
dish  between  them.  No,  girls  never  did  that  in  their 
grandmothers'  days,  so  of  course  who  would  imagine 
they  would  do  so  now?  Who,  indeed?  But  there  they 
are,  and  there  is  the  dish  between  them,  and  two  hands 
reaching  into  the  same  dish,  must  of  course  collide.  Col 
lision  is  inevitable,  and  by  carefully  noting  the  repeti 
tions  of  the  collisions,  one  may  logically  infer  that  the 
collisions  are  upon  the  whole  rather  pleasurable  than 
otherwise ;  and  when  it  comes  to  the  last  piece  of  fudge 
in  the  dish,  —  the  very  last  piece,  —  the  astral  observer  will 
see  that  there  is  just  the  slightest,  the  very  slightest, 
quickest,  most  fleeting  little  tussle  of  hands  for  it,  and 
much  laughter ;  and  then  the  young  woman  rises  quickly 
—  also  note  the  slight  pink  flush  in  her  cheeks,  and  she 
goes  to  her  chair  and  folds  her  pretty  hands  in  her  lap, 
and  asks :  — 

"  Well,  do  you  like  my  fudge,  Neal  Ward  ?  Is  it  as 
good  as  Belva  Lockwood's  ?  She  puts  nuts  in  hers  —  I've 
eaten  it ;  do  you  like  it  with  nuts  in  it  ?  " 

"  Not  so  well  as  this,"  says  the  boy. 

The  girl  slips  into  the  dining  room,  for  a  glass  of  water. 
See  the  eyes  of  the  youth  following  her.  It  is  dusky  in 
the  dining  room,  and  the  youth  longs  for  dusky  places,  but 
has  not  developed  courage  enough  to  follow  her.  But  he 
has  courage  enough  to  steady  his  eyes  as  she  comes  back 
with  the  water,  so  that  he  can  look  into  her  blue  eyes  while 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  309 

you  would  count  as  much  as  one  —  two  —  three — slowly 
—  four  —  slowly  —  five.  A  long,  long  time,  so  long 
indeed  that  she  wishes  he  would  look  just  a  second 
longer. 

So  at  the  end  of  the  evening  here  stand  Neal,  and 
Jeanette,  even  as  Adam  and  Eve  stood  in  the  garden, 
talking  of  nothing  in  particular  as  they  slowly  move 
toward  the  door.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  says,  as  Eve 
said  and  as  Eve's  daughters  have  said  through  all  the  cen 
turies,  looking  intently  at  the  floor.  And  then  Neal,  sud 
denly  finding  the  language  of  his  line  back  to  Adam,  looks 
up  to  say,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot  —  but  have  you  read  '  Mon 
sieur  Beaucaire '  ?  "  Now  Adam  said,  "  Have  you  heard 
the  new  song  that  the  morning  stars  are  singing  together?  " 
and  Priam  asked  Helen  if  she  would  like  to  hear  that  new 
thing  of  Solomon's  just  out,  and  so  as  the  ages  have  rolled 
by,  young  gentlemen  standing  beside  their  adored  but  not 
declared  ones  have  mixed  literature  with  love,  and  have 
tied  wisdom  up  in  a  package  of  candy  or  wild  honey,  and 
have  taken  it  to  the  trysting  place  since  the  beginning  of 
time.  It  is  thus  the  poets  thrive.  And  when  she  was 
asked  about  the  new  song  of  the  morning  stars,  Eve, 
though  she  knew  it  as  she  knew  her  litany,  answered  no  ; 
and  so  did  Eve's  daughter,  standing  in  the  dimly  lighted 
hallway  of  the  Barclay  home  in  Sycamore  Ridge  ;  and  so 
then  and  there  being,  these  two  made  their  next  meeting 
sure. 

x  In  those  last  years  of  the  last  century  John  Barclay  be-  \/ 
came  a  powerful  man  in  this  world  —  one  of  the  few  hun 
dred  men  who  divided  the  material  kingdoms  of  this  earth 
among  them.  He  was  a  rich  man  who  was  turning  his 
money  into  great  political  power.  Senates  listened  to  him, 
many  courts  were  his  in  fee  simple,  because  he  had  bought 
and  paid  for  the  men  who  named  the  judges ;  Presidents 
were  glad  to  know  what  he  thought,  and  when  he  came  to 
the  White  House,  reporters  speculated  about  the  talk  that 
went  on  behind  the  doors  of  the  President's  room,  and  the 
stock  market  fluttered.  If  he  desired  a  law,  he  paid  for 
it  and  got  it  —  not  in  a  coarse  illegal  way,  to  be  sure,  but 


310  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

through  the  regular  conventional  channels  of  politics,  and 
if  he  desired  to  step  on  a  law,  he  stepped  on  it,  and  a  court 
came  running  up  behind  him,  and  legalized  his  transaction. 
He  sneered  at  reformers,  and  mocked  God,  did  John  Bar 
clay  in  those  days.  He  grew  arrogant  and  boastful,  and 
strutted  in  his  power  like  a  man  in  liquor  with  the  vain 
knowledge  that  he  could  increase  the  population  of  a  state 
or  a  group  of  states,  or  he  could  shrivel  the  prosperity  of 
a  section  of  the  country  by  his  whim.  For  by  changing  a 
freight  rate  he  could  make  wheat  grow,  where  grass  had 
flourished.  By  changing  the  rate  again,  he  could  beckon 
back  the  wilderness.  And  yet,  how  small  was  his  power ; 
here  beside  him,  cherished  as  the  apple  of  his  eye,  was  his 
daughter,  a  slip  of  a  girl,  with  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair, 
whose  heart  was  growing  toward  the  light,  as  the  hearts 
of  young  things  grow,  and  he,  with  all  of  his  power,  could 
only  watch  the  mystery,  and  wonder  at  it.  He  was  not 
displeased  at  what  he  saw.  But  it  was  one  of  the  few 
things  in  his  consciousness  over  which  he  could  find  no 
way  to  assume  control.  He  stood  in  the  presence  of 
something  that  came  from  outside  of  his  realm  and  ignored 
him  as  the  sun  and  the  rain  and  the  simple  processes  of 
nature  ignored  him. 

"  Jane,"  he  said  one  night,  when  he  was  in  the  Ridge 
for  the  first  time  in  many  weeks,  —  a  night  near  the  end 
of  the  summer  when  Jeanette  and  Neal  Ward  were 
vaguely  feeling  their  way  together,  "  Jane,  mother  says 
that  while  we've  been  away  Neal  Ward  has  been  here 
pretty  often.  You  don't  suppose  that  —  " 

"  Well,  I've  rather  wondered  about  it  myself  a  little," 
responded  Jane.  "  Neal  is  such  a  fine  handsome  young 
fellow." 

"  But,  Jane,"  exclaimed  Barclay,  impatiently,  as  he  rose 
to  walk  the  rug,  "Jennie  is  only  a  child.  Why,  she's 
only  —  " 

"Nineteen,  John  —  she's  a  big  girl  now." 

"  I  know,  dear,"  he  protested,  "  but  that's  absurdly 
young.  Why  —  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  was  nearly  twenty  when  I  was 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  3H 

engaged  to  you,  and  Jennie's  not  engaged  yet,  nor  prob 
ably  even  thinking  seriously  of  it." 

"Don't  you  think,"  cried  Barclay,  as  he  limped  down 
the  diagonal  of  the  rug,  "that  you  should  do  something  ? 
Isn't  it  a  little  unusual  ?  Why  —  " 

"  Well,  John,"  smiled  the  wife,  "  I  might  do  what  mother 
did  :  turn  the  young  man  over  to  father  ! "  Barclay 
laughed,  and  she  went  on  patiently :  "  It's  not  at  all  un 
usual,  John,  even  if  they  do  — that  is,  if  they  are—  you 
know  ;  but  they  aren't,  and  Jennie  is  too  much  in  love 
with  her  work  at  school  to  quit  that.  But  after  all  it's  the 
American  way  ;  it  was  the  way  we  did,  dear,  and  the  way 
our  mothers  and  fathers  did,  and  unless  you  wish  to  change 
it  —  to  Europeanize  it,  and  pick  —  " 

"  Ah,  nonsense,  Jane  —  of  course  I  don't  want  that  ! 
Only  I  thought  some  way,  if  it's  serious  she  ought  to  — 
Oh,  don't  you  know  she  ought  to  —  " 

Mrs.  Barclay  broke  her  smile  with,  "  Of  course  she 
ought  to,  dear,  and  so  ought  I  and  so  ought  mother  when 
she  married  father  and  so  ought  my  grandmother  when 
she  married  grandpa  —  but  did  we?  Dear,  don't  you  see 
the  child  doesn't  realize  it?  If  it  is  anything,  it  is  growing 
in  her  heart,  and  I  wouldn't  smudge  it  for  the  world,  by 
speaking  to  her  now —  unless  you  don't  like  Neal  ;  unless 
you  think  he's  too  —  unless  you  want  a  different  boy.  I 
mean  some  one  of  consequence  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't  that,  Jane  —  it  isn't  that.  Neal's 
all  right;  he's  clean  and  he  is  honest — I  asked  Bob 
Hendricks  about  him  to-day,  when  we  passed  the  boy 
chasing  news  for  the  Banner,  and  Bob  gives  him  a  fine 
name."  Barclay  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  sighed. 
"  I  suppose  it's  just  that  I  feel  Jeanette's  kind  of  leaving 
us  out  of  it  —  that  is  all." 

Jane  went  to  him  and  patted  his  head  gently,  as  she 
spoke:  "That  is  nature,  dear  —  the  fawn  hiding  in  the 
woods ;  we  must  trust  to  Jennie's  good  sense,  and  the 
good  blood  in  Neal.  My,  but  his  sisters  are  proud  of 
him !  Last  week  Lizzie  was  telling  me  Neal's  wages  had 
been  increased  to  ten  dollars  a  week  —  and  I  don't  suppose 


312  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

their  father  in  all  of  his  life  ever  had  that  much  of  a  steady 
income.  The  things  the  family  is  planning  to  do  with  that 
ten  dollars  a  week  brought  tears  of  joy  to  my  eyes.  Neal's 
going  to  have  his  mother-in-law  on  his  side,  anyway  —  just 
as  you  had  yours.  I  know  now  how  mother  felt." 

But  John  Barclay  did  not  know  how  mother  felt,  and 
he  did  not  care.  He  knew  how  father  felt  —  how  Lycur- 
gus  Mason  felt,  and  how  the  father  of  Mrs.  Lycurgus 
Mason  felt ;  he  felt  hurt  and  slighted,  and  he  could  not 
repress  a  feeling  of  bitterness  toward  the  youth.  All  the 
world  loves  a  daughter-in-law,  but  a  father's  love  for  a 
son-in-law  is  an  acquired  taste ;  some  men  never  get  it. 
And  John  Barclay  was  called  away  the  next  morning  to 
throttle  a  mill  in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley,  and  from  there 
he  went  to  North  Dakota  to  stop  the  building  of  a  com 
petitive  railroad  that  tapped  his  territory ;  so  September 
came,  and  with  it  Jeanette  Barclay  went  back  to  school. 
The  mother  wondered  what  the  girl  would  do  with 
her  last  night  at  home.  She  was  clearly  nervous  and 
unsettled  all  the  afternoon  before,  and  made  an  errand 
into  town  and  came  back  with  a  perturbed  face.  But 
after  dinner  the  mother  heard  Jeanette  at  the  telephone, 
and  this  is  the  one-sided  dialogue  the  mother  caught : 
"Yes  —  this  is  Miss  Barclay."  "Oh,  yes,  I  didn't  recog 
nize  your  voice  at  first."  "What  meeting?"  "Yes  — 
yes."  "And  they  are  not  going  to  have  it?"  "  Oh,  I  see." 
"  You  were  —  oh,  I  don't  know.  Of  course  I  should  have 
felt  —  well,  I  —  oh,  it  would  have  been  all  right  with  me. 
Of  course."  Then  the  voice  cheered  up  and  she  said: 
"  Why,  of  course  —  come  right  out.  I  understand."  A 
pause  and  then,  "  Yes,  I  know  a  man  has  to  go  where  he 
is  called."  "Oh,  she'll  understand  —  you  know  father  is 
always  on  the  wing."  "No  —  why,  no,  of  course  not  — 
mother  wouldn't  think  that  of  you.  I'll  tell  her  how  it 
was."  "All  right,  good-by — yes,  right  away."  And 
Jeanette  Barclay  skipped  away  from  the  telephone  and 
ran  to  her  mother  to  say,  "  Mother,  that  was  Neal  Ward 
—  he  wants  to  come  out,  and  he  was  afraid  you'd  think  it 
rude  for  him  to  ask  that  way,  but  you  know  he  had  a 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  313 

meeting  to  report  and  thought  he  couldn't  come,  and  now 
they've  postponed  the  meeting,  and  I  told  him  to  come 
right  out  — •  wasn't  that  all  right  ?  " 

And  so  out  came  Neal  Ward,  a  likely-looking  young 
man  of  twenty-one  or  maybe  twenty-two  —  a  good  six 
feet  in  height,  with  a  straight  leg,  a  square  shoulder,  and 
firm  jaw,  set  like  his  father's,  and  clean  brown  eyes  that 
did  not  blink.  And  as  Jeanette  Barclay,  with  her  mother's 
height,  and  her  father's  quick  keen  features,  and  her  Grand 
mother  Barclay's  eyes  and  dominant  figure,  stood  beside 
him  in  the  doorway,  Mrs.  Jane  Barclay  thought  a  good 
way  ahead,  and  Jeanette  would  have  blushed  her  face  to 
a  cinder  if  the  mother  had  spoken  her  thoughts.  The  three, 
mother  and  daughter  and  handsome  young  man,  sat  for  a 
while  together  in  the  living  room,  and  then  Jane,  who 
knew  the  heart  of  youth,  and  did  not  fear  it,  said,  "  You 
children  should  go  out  on  the  porch — it's  a  beautiful  night; 
I'm  going  upstairs." 

And  now  let  us  once  more  in  our  astral  bodies  watch 
them  there  in  the  light  of  the  veiled  moon  —  for  it  is  the 
last  time  that  even  we  should  see  them  alone.  She  is  sit 
ting  on  a  balustrade,  and  he  is  standing  beside  her,  and  their 
hands  are  close  together  on  the  stones.  "  Yes,"  he  is  say 
ing,  "  I  shall  be  busy  at  the  train  to-morrow  trying  to  catch 
the  governor  for  an  interview  on  the  railroad  question, 
and  may  not  see  you." 

"  I  wish  you  would  throw  the  governor  into  the  deep 
blue  sea,"  she  says,  and  he  responds:  — 

"  I  wish  I  could."  There  is  a  silence,  and  then  he  risks 
it  —  and  the  thing  he  has  been  trying  to  say  comes  out, 
"  I  wonder  if  you  will  do  something  for  me,  Jeanette?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  —  don't  ask  me  anything  hard  —  not 
very  hard,  Neal !" 

The  last  word  was  all  he  cared  for,  and  by  what  sleight 
of  hand  he  slipped  his  fraternity  pin  from  his  vest  into 
her  hand,  neither  ever  knew. 

"  Will  you  ?"  he  asks.     "  For  me  ?  " 

She  pins  it  at  her  throat,  and  smiles.  Then  she  says, 
(t  Is  this  long  enough  —  do  you  want  it  back  now  ?  " 


314  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

He  shakes  his  head,  and  finally  she  asks,  "When?" 
and  then  it  comes  out :  — 

"Never." 

And  her  face  reddens,  and  she  does  not  speak.  Their 
hands,  on  the  wall,  have  met — they  just  touch,  that  is  all,  but 
they  do  not  hasten  apart.  A  long,  long  time  they  are 
silent  —  an  eternity  of  a  minute;  and  then  she  says,  "We 
shall  see  in  the  morning." 

And  then  another  eternal  minute  rolls  by,  and  the  youth 
slips  the  rose  from  her  hair  —  quickly,  and  without  disar 
ranging  a  strand. 

"  Oh,"  she  cries,  "  Neal !  "  and  then  adds,  "  Let  me  get 
you  a  pretty  one  — that  is  faded." 

But  no,  he  will  have  that  one,  and  she  stands  beside 
him  and  pins  it  on  his  coat  —  stands  close  beside  him, 
and  where  her  elbows  and  her  arms  touch  him  he  is 
thrilled  with  delight.  In  the  shadow  of  the  great  porch 
they  stand  a  moment,  and  her  hand  goes  out  to  his. 

"  Well,  Jeanette,"  he  says,  and  still  her  hand  does  not 
shrink  away,  "  well,  Jeanette  —  it  will  be  lonesome  when 
you  go." 

"  Will  it  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  Yes  — but  I  —  I  have  been  so  happy  to-night." 

He  presses  her  hand  a  little  closer,  and  as  she  says,  "  I'm 
so  glad,"  he  says,  "  Good-by,"  and  moves  down  the  broad 
stone  steps.  She  stands  watching  him,  and  at  the  bottom 
he  stops  and  again  says:  — 

"Well  —  good-by  —  Jeanette  —  I  must  go  —  I  sup 
pose."  And  she  does  not  move,  so  again  he  says,  "  Good- 
by." 

"  Youth,"  said  Colonel  Martin  Culpepper  to  the  assem 
bled  company  in  the  ballroom  of  the  Barclay  home  as 
the  clock  struck  twelve  and  brought  in  the  twentieth 
century  ;  "Youth,"  he  repeated,  as  he  tugged  at  the  bot 
tom  of  Buchanan  Culpepper's  white  silk  vest,  to  be  sure 
that  it  met  his  own  black  trousers,  and  waved  his  free 
hand  grandly  aloft ;  "  Youth,"  he  reiterated,  as  he  looked 
over  the  gay  young  company  at  the  foot  of  the  hall, 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  315 

while  the  fiddlers  paused  with  their  bows  in  the  air, 
and  the  din  of  the  New  Year's  clang  was  rising  in  the  town ; 
"  Youth,  —  of  all  the  things  in  God's  good  green  earth, — 
Youth  is  the  most  beautiful."  Then  he  signalled  with 
some  dignity  to  the  leader  of  the  orchestra,  and  the  music 
began. 

It  was  a  memorable  New  Year's  party  that  Jeanette 
Barclay  gave  at  the  dawn  of  this  century.  The  Barclay 
private  car  had  brought  a  dozen  girls  down  from  the  state 
university  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  then  had  made 
a  recruiting  trip  as  far  east  as  Cleveland  and  had  brought 
back  a  score  more  of  girls  in  their  teens  and  early  twenties 
—  for  an  invitation  from  the  Barclays,  if  not  of  much  social 
consequence,  had  a  power  behind  it  that  every  father  rec 
ognized.  And  what  with  threescore  girls  from  the  Ridge, 
and  young  men  from  half  a  dozen  neighbouring  states,  — • 
and  young  men  are  merely  background  in  any  social  pic 
ture,  —  the  ballroom  was  as  pretty  as  a  garden.  It  was 
her  own  idea,  —  with  perhaps  a  shade  of  suggestion  from 
her  father, — that  the  old  century  should  be  danced  out 
and  the  new  one  danced  in  with  the  pioneers  of  Garrison 
County  set  in  quadrilles  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  while 
the  young  people  whirled  around  them  in  the  two-step 
then  in  vogue.  So  the  Barclays  asked  a  score  or  so  of  the 
old  people  in  for  dinner  New  Year's  Eve ;  and  they  kept 
below  stairs  until  midnight.  Then  they  filed  into  the 
ballroom,  with  its  fair  fresh  faces,  its  shrill  treble  note 
of  merriment, — these  old  men  and  women,  gray  and  faded, 
looking  back  on  the  old  century  while  the  others  looked 
into  the  new  one.  There  came  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watts  Mc- 
Hurdie  in  the  lead,  Watts  in  his  best  brown  suit,  and  Mrs. 
Watts  in  lavender  to  sustain  her  gray  hair ;  General 
Ward,  in  his  straight  black  frock  coat  and  white  tie,  fol 
lowed  with  Mrs.  Dorman,  relict  of  the  late  William 
Dorman,  merchant,  on  his  arm;  behind  him  came  the 
Brownwells,  in  evening  clothes,  and  Robert  Hendricks 
and  his  sister,  -—  all  gray-haired,  but  straight  of  figure  and 
firm  of  foot ;  Colonel  Culpepper  followed  with  Mrs.  Mary 
Barclay ;  the  Lycurgus  Masons  were  next  in  the  file,  and 


316  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

in  their  evening  clothes  they  looked  withered  and  old, 
and  Lycurgus  was  not  sure  upon  his  feet ;  Jacob  Dolan  in 
his  faded  blue  uniform  marched  in  like  a  drum-major  with 
the  eldest  Miss  Ward ;  and  the  Carnines  followed,  and 
the  Fernalds  followed  them ;  and  then  came  Judge  and 
Mrs.  Bemis : —  he  a  gaunt,  sinister,  parchment-skinned  man, 
with  white  hair  and  a  gray  mustache,  and  she  a  crumbling 
ruin  in  shiny  satin  bedecked  in  diamonds.  Down  the 
length  of  the  long  room  they  walked,  and  executed  an 
old-fashioned  grand  march,  such  as  Watts  could  lead, 
while  the  orchestra  played  the  tune  that  brought  cheers 
from  the  company,  and  the  little  old  man  looked  at  the 
floor,  while  Mrs.  McHurdie  beamed  and  bowed  and  smiled. 
And  then  they  took  their  partners  to  step  off  the  quadrille 
• —  when  behold,  it  transpired  that  in  all  the  city  orchestra, 
that  had  cost  the  Barclays  a  thousand  dollars  according  to 
town  tradition,  not  one  man  could  be  found  who  could 
call  off  a  quadrille.  Then  up  spake  John  Barclay,  and 
stood  him  on  a  chair,  and  there,  when  the  colonel  had  sig 
nalled  for  the  music  to  start,  the  voice  of  John  Barclay 
rang  out  above  the  din,  as  it  had  not  sounded  before  in 
nearly  thirty  years.  Old  memories  came  rushing  back  to 
him  of  the  nights  when  he  used  to  ride  five  and  ten  and 
twenty  miles  and  play  the  cabinet  organ  to  a  fiddle's  lead, 
and  call  off  until  daybreak  for  two  dollars.  And  such  a 
quadrille  as  he  gave  them  —  four  figures  of  it  before  he 
sent  them  to  their  seats.  There  were  "  cheat  or  swing," 
the  "  crow's  nest,"  "  skip  to  my  Loo," — and  they  all  broke 
out  singing,  while  the  young  people  clapped  their  hands, 
and  finally  by  a  series  of  promptings  he  quickly  called  the 
men  into  one  line  and  the  women  into  another,  and  then 
the  music  suddenly  changed  to  the  Virginia  reel.  And  so 
the  dance  closed  for  the  old  people,  and  they  vanished  from 
the  room,  looking  back  at  the  youth  and  the  happiness 
and  warmth  of  the  place  with  wistful  but  not  eager  eyes ; 
and  as  Jacob  Dolan,  in  his  faded  blues  and  grizzled 
hair  and  beard,  disappeared  into  the  dusk  of  the  hall 
way,  Jeanette  Barclay,  looking  at  her  new  ring,  patted  it 
and  said  to  Neal  Ward:  "Well,  dear,  the  nineteenth 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  317 

century  is  gone  I  Now  let  us  dance  and  be  happy  in  this 
one."  ' 

And  so  she  danced  the  new  year  and  the  new  century 
and  the  new  life  in,  as  happy  as  a  girl  of  twenty  can  be. 
For  was  she  not  a  Junior  at  the  state  university,  if  you 
please  ?  Was  she  not  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  and  a  scan 
dalous  lot  of  millions  besides,  and  what  is  infinitely  more 
important  to  a  girl's  happiness,  was  she  not  engaged,  good 
and  tight,  and  proud  of  it,  to  a  youth  making  twelve  dol 
lars  every  week  whether  it  rained  or  not  ?  What  more 
could  an  honest  girl  ask  ?  And  it  was  all  settled,  and  so 
happily  settled  too,  that  when  she  had  graduated  with  her 
class  at  the  university,  and  had  spent  a  year  in  Europe  — 
but  that  was  a  long  way  ahead,  and  Neal  had  to  go  to  the 
City  with  father  and  learn  the  business  first.  But  busi 
ness  and  graduation  and  Europe  were  mere  details  —  the 
important  thing  had  happened.  So  when  it  was  all  over 
that  night,  and  the  girls  had  giggled  themselves  to  bed, 
and  the  house  was  dark,  Jeanette  Barclay  and  her  mother 
walked  up  the  stairs  to  her  room  together.  There  they 
sat  down,  and  Jeanette  began  — 

"  Neal  said  he  told  you  about  the  ring  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  her  mother. 

"  But  he  did  not  show  it  to  you  —  because  he  wanted 
me  to  be  the  first  to  see  it." 

"  Neal's  a  dear,"  replied  her  mother.  "  So  that  was 
why  ?  I  thought  perhaps  he  was  bashful." 

"  No,  mother,"  answered  the  girl,  "  no  —  we're  both  so 
proud  of  it."  She  kept  her  hand  over  the  ring  finger,  as 
she  spoke,  "  You  know  those  '  Short  and  Simple  Annals ' 
he's  been  doing  for  the  Star  —  well,  he  got  his  first  check 
the  day  before  Christmas,  and  he  gave  half  of  it  to  his 
father,  and  took  the  other  twenty-five  dollars  and  bought 
this  ring.  I  think  it  is  so  pretty,  and  we  are  both  real 
proud  of  it."  And  then  she  took  her  hand  from  the  ring, 
and  held  her  finger  out  for  her  mother's  eyes,  and  her 
mother  kissed  it.  They  were  silent  a  moment ;  then  the 
girl  rose  and  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob  and 
cried :  "  I  think  it  is  the  prettiest  ring  in  all  the  world, 


318  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

and   I   never  want   any  other."     Then   she   thought   of 
another,  and  flushed  and  ran  away. 

Arid  we  should  not  follow  her.  Rather  let  us  climb 
Main  Street  and  turn  into  Lincoln  Avenue  and  enter  the 
room  where  Martin  Culpepper  sits  writing  the  Biography 
of  Watts  McHurdie.  He  is  at  work  on  his  famous  chap 
ter,  "  Hymen's  Altar,"  and  we  may  look  over  his  great 
shoulder  and  see  what  he  has  written :  "  The  soul  caged 
in  its  prison  house  of  the  flesh  looks  forth,"  he  writes, 
"  and  sees  other  chained  souls,  and  hails  them  in  passing 
like  distant  ships.  But  soul  only  meets  soul  in  some 
great  passion  of  giving,  whether  it  be  man  to  his  fellow- 
man,  to  his  God,  or  in  the  love  of  men  and  women  ;  it  mat 
ters  not  how  the  ecstasy  comes,  its  root  is  in  sacrifice,  in 
giving,  in  forgetting  self  and  merging  through  abnegation 
into  the  source  of  life  in  this  universe  for  one  sublime 
moment.  For  we  may  not  come  out  of  our  prison  houses 
save  to  inhale  the  air  of  heaven  once  or  twice,  and  then 
go  scourged  back  to  our  dungeons.  Great  souls  are  they 
who  love  the  most,  who  breathe  the  deepest  of  heaven's 
air,  and  give  of  themselves  most  freely." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE  next  morning,  before  the  guests  were  downstairs, 
Barclay,  reading  his  morning  papers  before  the  fireplace, 
stopped  his  daughter,  who  was  going  through  the  living 
room  on  some  morning  errand. 

"  Jeanette,"  said  the  father,  as  he  drew  her  to  his  chair 
arm,  "let  me  see  it." 

She  brought  the  setting  around  to  the  outside  of  her 
finger,  and  gave  him  her  hand.  He  looked  at  it  a  mo 
ment,  patted  her  hand,  put  the  ring  to  his  lips,  and  the 
two  sat  silent,  choked  with  something  of  joy  and  some 
thing  of  sorrow  that  shone  through  their  brimming  eyes. 
Thus  Mary  Barclay  found  them.  They  looked  up  abashed, 
and  she  bent  over  them  and  stroked  her  son's  hair  as  she 
said  :  — 

"  John,  John,  isn't  it  fine  that  Jennie  has  escaped  the 
curse  of  your  millions?" 

Barclay's  heart  was  melted.  He  could  not  answer,  so 
he  nodded  an  assenting  head.  The  mother  stooped  to 
kiss  her  son's  forehead,  as  she  went  on,  "  Not  with  all 
of  your  millions  could  you  buy  that  simple  little  ring  for 
Jennie,  John."  And  the  father  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
ring,  and  his  daughter  snuggled  tightly  into  his  heart 
and  the  three  mingled  their  joy  together. 

Two  hours  later  Barclay  and  General  Ward  met  on  the 
bridge  by  the  mill.  It  was  one  of  those  warm  midwinter 
days,  when  nature  seems  to  be  listening  for  the  coming  of 
spring.  A  red  bird  was  calling  in  the  woods  near  by,  and 
the  soft  south  wind  had  spring  in  it  as  it  blew  across  the 
veil  of  waters  that  hid  the  dam.  John  Barclay's  head 
was  full  of  music,  and  he  was  lounging  across  the  bridge 
from  the  mill  on  his  way  home  to  try  his  new  pipe  organ. 
He  had  spent  four  hours  the  day  before  at  his  organ  bench, 

319 


320  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

trying  to  teach  his  lame  foot  to  keep  up  with  his  strong 
foot.  So  when  General  Ward  overhauled  him,  Barclay 
was  annoyed.  He  was  not  the  man  to  have  his  purposes 
crossed,  even  when  they  were  whims. 

"  I  was  just  coming  over  to  the  mill  to  see  you,"  said 
the  general,  as  he  halted  in  Barclay's  path. 

"  All  right,  General  —  all  right  ;  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

The  general  was  as  blunt  a  man  as  John  Barclay.  If 
Barclay  desired  no  beating  around  the  bush,  the  general 
would  go  the  heart  of  matters.  So  he  said,  "  I  want  to 
talk  about  Neal  with  you." 

Barclay  knew  that  certain  things  must  be  said,  and  the 
two  men  sat  in  a  stone  seat  in  the  bridge  wall,  with  the 
sun  upon  them,  to  talk  it  out  then  and  there.  "  Well, 
General,  we  like  Neal  —  we  like  him  thoroughly.  And 
we  are  glad,  Jane  and  I,  and  my  mother  too  —  she  likes 
him  ;  and  I  want  to  do  something  for  him.  That's  about 
all  there  is  to  say." 

"  Yes,  but  what,  John  Barclay  —  what  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
general.  "  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  for  him  ?  Make  him  a  devil  worshipper  ?  " 

"  Well  now,  General,  here  —  don't  be  too  fast,"  Barclay 
smiled  and  drawled.  He  put  his  hands  on  the  warm 
rocks  at  his  sides  and  flapped  them  like  wing-tips  as  he 
went  on  :  "  Jeanette  and  Neal  have  their  own  lives  to 
live.  They're  sensible  —  unusually  sensible.  We  didn't 
steal  Neal,  any  more  than  you  stole  Jeanette,  General, 


"  Oh,  I  understand  that,  John;  that  isn't  the  point," 
broke  in  the  general.  "But  now  that  you've  got  him, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ?  Can't  you  see,  John, 
he's  my  boy,  and  that  I  have  a  right  to  know  ?  " 

"  Now,  General,  will  you  let  me  do  a  little  of  this  talk 
ing?"  asked  Barclay,  impatiently.  "As  I  was  saying, 
Jeanette  and  Neal  are  sensible,  and  money  isn't  going  to 
make  fools  of  them.  When  the  time  comes  and  I'm  gone, 
they'll  take  the  divine  responsibility  —  " 

"The  divine  tommy  rot!"  cried  the  general;  "the  divine 


A   CERTAIN   KiCH   MAN  321 

fiddlesticks !  Why  should  they  ?  What  have  they  done 
that  they  should  have  that  thrust  upon  them  like  a  curse; 
in  God's  name,  John  Barclay,  why  should  my  Neal  have  to 
have  that  blot  upon  his  soul  ?  Can't  they  be  free  and  in 
dependent  ?  " 

Barclay  did  not  answer;  he  looked  glumly  at  the  floor, 
and  kicked  the  cement  with  his  heel.  "  What  would  you 
have  them  do  with  the  money  when  they  get  it,"  he 
growled,  "  burn  it  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  snapped  the  general. 

"Oh  —  I  just  thought  I'd  ask,"  responded  Barclay. 

The  two  men  sat  in  silence.  Barclay  regarded  conver 
sation  with  the  general  in  that  mood  as  arguing  with  a 
lunatic.  Presently  he  rose,  and  stood  before  Ward  and 
spoke  rather  harshly  :  "  What  I  am  going  to  do  is  this  — 
and  nothing  more.  Neal  tells  me  he  understands  short 
hand  :  I  know  the  boy  is  industrious,  and  I  know  that  he 
is  bright  and  quick  and  honest.  That's  all  he  needs.  I 
am  going  to  take  him  into  our  company  as  a  stockholder  — 
with  one  share  —  a  thousand-dollar  share,  to  be  explicit ; 
I'm  going  to  give  that  to  him,  and  that's  all ;  then  he's  to 
be  my  private  secretary  for  three  years  at  five  thousand  a 
year,  so  long  as  you  must  know,  and  then  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  if  he  and  Jennie  are  so  minded,  they're  going 
to  marry ;  and  if  he  has  any  business  sense  —  of  course 
you  know  what  will  happen.  She  is  all  we  have,  Gen 
eral —  some  one's  got  to  take  hold  of  things." 

As  Barclay  spoke  General  Ward  grew  white  —  his  face 
was  aquiver  as  his  trembling  voice  cried  out :  "  Oh,  God, 
John  Barclay,  and  would  you  take  my  boy  —  my  clean- 
hearted,  fine-souled  boy,  whom  I  have  taught  to  fear  God, 
and  callous  his  soul  with  your  damned  money-making? 
How  would  you  like  me  to  take  your  girl  and  blacken 
her  heart  and  teach  her  the  wiles  of  the  outcasts  ?  And 
yet  you're  going  to  teach  Neal  to  lie  and  steal  and  cheat 
and  make  his  moral  guide  the  penal  code  instead  of  his 
father's  faith.  Shame  on  you,  John  Barclay  —  shame  on 
you,  and  may  God  damn  you  for  this  thing,  John  Bar 
clay  I  "  The  old  man  trembled,  but  the  sob  that  shook 


322  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

his  frame  had  no  tears  in  it.  He  looked  Barclay  in  the 
eyes  without  a  tremor  for  an  angry  moment,  and  then 
broke :  "  I  am  an  old  man,  John  ;  I  can't  interfere  with 
Neal  and  Jeanette ;  it's  their  life,  not  mine,  and  some  way 
God  will  work  it  out ;  but,"  he  added,  "  I've  still  got  my 
own  heart  to  break  over  it  —  that's  mine  —  that's  mine." 

He  rose  and  faced  the  younger  man  a  moment,  and  then 
walked  quickly  away.  Barclay  limped  after  him,  and 
went  home.  There  he  sat  on  his  bench  and  made  the 
great  organ  scream  and  howl  and  bellow  with  rage  for 
two  hours. 

When  Neal  Ward  went  to  the  City  to  live,  he  had  a  reve 
lation  of  John  Barclay  as  a  man  of  moods.  The  Barclay 
Neal  Ward  saw  was  an  electric  motor  rather  than  an 
engine.  The  power  he  had  to  perceive  and  to  act  seemed 
transmitted  to  him  from  the  outside.  At  times  he  dictated 
letters  of  momentous  importance  to  the  young  man,  which 
Neal  was  sure  were  improvised.  Barclay  relied  on  his 
instincts  and  rarely  changed  a  decision.  He  wore  himself 
out  every  day,  yet  he  returned  to  his  work  the  next  day 
without  a  sign  of  fag.  The  young  man  found  that  Bar 
clay  had  one  curious  vanity — he  liked  to  seem  composed. 
Hence  the  big  smooth  mahogany  table  before  him,  with 
the  single  paper  tablet  on  it,  and  the  rose  —  the  one  rose 
in  the  green  vase  in  the  centre  of  the  table.  Visitors 
always  found  him  thus  accoutred.  But  to  see  him  limp 
ing  about  from  room  to  room,  giving  orders  in  the  great 
offices,  dictating  notes  for  the  heads  of  the  various  depart 
ments,  to  see  him  in  the  room  where  the  mail  was  received, 
worrying  it  like  a  pup,  was  to  see  another  man  revealed. 
He  liked  to  have  people  from  Sycamore  Ridge  call  upon 
him,  and  the  man  who  kept  door  in  the  outer  office  —  a 
fine  gray -haired  person,  who  had  the  manners  of  a  brigadier 
—  knew  so  many  people  in  Sycamore  Ridge  that  Neal  used 
to  call  him  the  City  Directory.  One  day  Molly  Brown- 
well  called.  She  was  the  only  person  who  ever  quelled 
the  brigadier ;  but  when  a  woman  has  been  a  social  leader 
in  a  country  town  all  of  her  life,  she  has  a  social  poise  that 
may  not  be  impressed  by  a  mere  brigadier.  Mrs.  Brown- 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  323 

well  realized  that  her  call  was  unusual,  but  she  refused  to 
acknowledge  it  ,to  him.  Barclay  seemed  glad  to  see  her, 
and  as  he  was  in  one  of  his  mellow  moods  he  talked  of  old 
times,  and  drew  from  a  desk  near  the  wall,  which  he  rarely 
opened,  an  envelope  containing  a  tintype  picture  of  Ellen 
Culpepper.  He  showed  it  to  her  sister,  and  they  both  sat 
silent  for  a  time,  and  then  the  woman  spoke. 

"  Well,  John,"  she  said,  "  that  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"Forty  years,  Molly  —  forty  years." 

When  they  came  back  to  the  world  she  said  :  "  John,  I 
am  up  here  looking  for  a  publisher.  Father  has  written 
a  Biography  of  Watts,  and  collected  all  of  his  poems  and 
things  in  it,  and  we  thought  it  might  sell  —  Watts  is  so 
well  known.  But  the  publishers  won't  take  it.  I  want 
your  advice  about  it." 

Barclay  listened  to  her  story,  and  then  wheeled  in  his 
chair  and  exclaimed,  "Can  Adrian  publish  that  book?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  tentatively ;  "  that  is,  he  could 
if  it  didn't  take  such  an  awful  lot  of  money." 

After  discussing  details  with  her,  Barclay  called  Neal 
Ward  and  said  :  — 

"  Get  up  a  letter  to  Adrian  Brownwell  asking  him  to 
print  for  me  three  thousand  copies  of  the  colonel's  book, 
at  one  dollar  and  fifty  cents  a  copy,  and  give  seventy-five 
per  cent  of  the  profits  to  Colonel  Culpepper.  We'll  put 
that  book  in  every  public  library  in  this  country.  How's 
that  ?  "  And  he  looked  at  the  tintype  and  said,  "  Bless 
her  dear  little  heart-" 

"  Neal,"  asked  Barclay,  as  Mrs.  Brownwell  left  the  room, 
"  how  old  are  you  ?  I  keep  forgetting."  When  the  young 
man  answered  twenty-five,  Barclay,  who  was  putting  away 
the  tintype  picture,  said,  "  And  Jeanette  will  be  twenty- 
three  at  her  next  birthday."  He  closed  the  desk  and 
looked  at  the  youth  bending  over  his  typewriter  and 
sighed.  "  Been  going  together  off  and  on  five  or  six  years 
—  I  should  say." 

Neal  nodded.  Barclay  put  his  hand  on  his  chin  and 
contemplated  the  young  man  a  moment.  "  Ever  have 
any  other  love  affair,  son  ?  " 


324  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

The  youngster  coloured  and  looked  up  quickly  with  a 
puzzled  look  and  did  not  reply. 

Barclay  cut  in  with,  "  Well,  son,  I'm  glad  to  find  you 
don't  lie  easily."  He  laughed  silently.  "Jennie  has  — 
lots  of  them.  When  she  was  six  she  used  to  cry  for  little 
Watts  Fernald,  and  they  quarrelled  like  cats  and  dogs, 
and  when  she  was  ten  there  was  an  Irish  boy  —  Finnegan 
I  think  his  name  was  —  who  milked  the  cow,  whom  she 
adored,  and  when  she  was  fourteen  or  so,  it  was  some  boy 
in  the  high  school  who  gave  her  candy  until  her  mother 
had  to  shoo  him  off,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  others. 'r 
He  paused  for  a  few  seconds  and  then  went  on,  uBut 
she's  forgotten  them  —  that's  the  way  of  women."  His 
eyes  danced  merrily  as  he  continued,  while  he  scratched 
his  head:  "But  with  us  men  —  it's  different.  We  never 
forget."  He  chuckled  a  moment,  and  then  his  face 
changed  as  he  said,  "  Neal,  I  wish  you'd  go  into  the  mail 
room  and  see  if  the  noon  mail  has  anything  in  it  from 
that  damn  scoundrel  who's  trying  to  start  a  cracker 
factory  in  St.  Louis  —  I  hate  to  bother  to  smash  him 
right  now  when  we're  so  busy." 

But  it  so  happened  that  the  damn  scoundrel  thought 
better  of  his  intention  and  took  fifty  thousand  for  his 
first  thought,  and  Neal  Ward,  being  one  of  the  component 
parts  of  an  engaged  couple,  went  ahead  being  sensible 
about  it.  All  engaged  couples,  of  course,  resolve  to  be 
sensible  about  it.  And  for  two  years  and  a  half  —  dur 
ing  nineteen  one  and  two  and  part  of  nineteen  three  — 
Jeanette  Barclay  and  Neal  Ward  had  tried-  earnestly  and 
succeeded  admirably  (they  believed)  in  being  exceedingly 
sensible  about  everything.  Jeanette  had  gone  through 
school  and  was  spending  the  year  in  Europe  with  her 
mother,  and  she  would  be  home  in  May ;  and  in  June  — 
in  June  of  1904  —  why,  the  almanac  stopped  there;  the 
world  had  no  further  interest,  and  no  one  on  earth  could 
imagine  anything  after  that.  For  then  they  proposed  not 
to  be  sensible  any  longer. 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century  —  about  1902,  prob 
ably  —  John  Barclay  paid  an  accounting  company  twenty- 


A    CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  325 

five  thousand  dollars  —  more  money  than  General  Ward 
and  Watts  McHurdie  and  Martin  Culpepper  and  Jacob 
Dolan  had  saved  in  all  their  long,  industrious,  frugal,  and 
useful  lives  —  to  go  over  his  business,  install  a  system  of 
audits  and  accounts,  and  tell  him  just  how  much  money 
he  was  worth.  After  a  score  of  men  had  been  working 
for  six  months,  the  accounting  company  made  its  report. 
It  was  put  in  terms  of  dollars  and  cents,  which  are  fleeting 
and  illusive  terms,  and  mean  much  in  one  country  and 
little  in  another,  signify  great  wealth  at  one  time  and 
mere  affluence  in  another  period.  So  the  sum  need  not 
be  set  down  here.  But  certain  interesting  details  of  the 
report  may  be  set  down  to  illuminate  this  narrative.  For 
instance,  it  indicates  that  John  Barclay  was  a  man  of  some 
consequence,  when  one  knows  that  he  employed  more  men 
in  that  year  than  many  a  sovereign  state  of  this  Union 
employed  in  its  state  and  county  and  city  governments. 
It  signifies  something  to  learn  that  he  controlled  more 
land  growing  wheat  than  any  of  half  a  dozen  European 
kings  reign  over.  It  means  something  to  realize  that  in 
those  years  of  his  high  tide  John  Barclay,  by  a  few  lines 
dictated  to  Neal  Ward,  could  have  put  bread  out  of  the 
reach  of  millions  of  his  fellow-creatures.  And  these  are 
evidences  of  material  power  —  these  men  he  hired,  these 
lands  he  dominated,  and  this  vast  store  of  food  that  he 
kept.  So  it  is  fair  to  assume  that  if  this  is  a  material 
world,  John  Barclay's  fortune  was  founded  upon  a  rock. 
He  and  his  National  Provisions  Company  were  real.  They 
were  able  to  make  laws ;  they  were  able  to  create  admin 
istrators  of  the  law ;  and  they  were  able  to  influence  those 
who  interpreted  the  law.  Barclay  and  his  power  were 
substantial,  palpable,  and  translatable  into  terms  of  money, 
of  power,  of  vital  force. 

And  then  one  day,  after  long  years  of  growth  in  the 
underconsciousnesses  of  men,  an  idea  came  into  full  bloom 
in  the  world.  It  had  no  especial  champions.  The  people 
began  to  think  this  idea.  That  was  all.  Now  life  reduced 
to  its  lowest  terms  consists  of  you  and  him  and  me.  Put  us 
on  a  desert  island  together — you  and  him  and  me  —  and  he 


'r*  >\ 
jr 


326  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

can  do  nothing  without  you  and  me  —  except  he  kill  us,  and 
then  he  is  alone;  even  then  we  haunt  him,  so  our  influence 
still  binds  him.  You  can  do  nothing  without  him  and  me, 
and  I  can  do  nothing  without  you  and  him.  Not  that  you 
and  he  will  hold  me;  not  that  you  will  stop  me;  but  what 
you  think  and  say  will  bind  me  to  your  wishes  tighter  than 
any  chains  you  might  forge.  What  you  and  he  think  is 
more  powerful  than  all  the  material  forces  of  this  universe. 
For  what  you  and  he  think  is  public  opinion.  It  is  not 
substantial;  it  is  not  palpable.  It  may  not  readily  be  trans 
lated  into  terms  of  money,  or  power,  or  vital  force.  But 
it  crushes  all  these  things  before  it.  When  this  public 
opinion  rises  sure  and  firm  and  strong,  no  material  force  on 
this  earth  can  stop  it.  For  a  time  it  may  be  dammed  and 
checked.  For  a  day  or  a  week  or  a  year  or  a  decade  it 
may  be  turned  from  its  channel;  yet  money  cannot  hold  it; 
arms  cannot  hold  it;  cunning  cannot  baffle  it.  For  it  is 
God  moving  among  men.  Thus  He  manifests  Himself  in 
this  earth.  Through  the  centuries,  amid  the  storm  and 
stress  of  time,  often  muffled,  often  strangled,  often  inco- 
herent,  often  raucous  and  inarticulate  with  anguish,  but 
always  in  the  end  triumphant,  the  voice  of  the  people  is 
indeed  the  voice  of  God! 

Nearly  a  dozen  years  had  passed  since  the  Russian  painted 
the  picture  of  John  Barclay,  which  hangs  in  the  public 
library  of  Sycamore  Ridge,  and  in  that  time  the  heart  of 
the  American  people  had  changed.  Barclay  was  begin 
ning  to  feel  upon  him,  night  and  day,  the  crushing  weight 
of  popular  scorn.  He  called  the  idea  envy,  but  it  was  not 
envy.  It  was  the  idea  working  in  the  world,  and  the 
weight  of  the  scorn  was  beginning  to  crumple  his  soul  ; 
for  this  idea  that  the  people  were  thinking  was  finding  its 
way  into  newspapers,  magazines,  and  books.  They  were 
beginning  to  question  the  divine  right  of  wealth  to  rule, 
because  it  was  wealth  —  an  idea  that  Barclay  could  not 
comprehend  even  vaguely.  The  term  honest  wealth,  which 
was  creeping  into  respectable  periodicals,  was  exceedingly 
annoying  to  him.  For  the  very  presence  of  the  term 
seemed  to  indicate  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  dis- 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  327 

honest  wealth,  —  an  obvious  absurdity ;  and  when  he  ad 
dressed  the  students  of  the  Southwestern  University  at 
their  commencement  exercises  in  1902,  his  address  at 
tracted  considerable  attention  because  it  deplored  the 
modern  tendency  in  high  places  toward  socialism  and 
warned  the  students  that  a  nation  of  iconoclasts  would 
perish  from  the  earth.  But  the  people  went  on  question 
ing  the  divine  right  of  wealth  to  rule.  In  the  early  part 
of  1903  Barclay  was  astounded  at  the  action  of  a  score 
of  his  senators  and  nearly  a  hundred  of  his  congressmen, 
who  voted  for  a  national  law  prohibiting  the  giving  of  rail 
road  rebates.  He  was  assured  by  all  of  them  that  it  was 
done  to  satisfy  temporary  agitation,  but  the  fact  that  they 
voted  for  the  law  at  all,  as  he  explained  to  Senator  Myton, 
at  some  length  and  with  some  asperity,  was  a  breach  of 
faith  with  "  interests  in  American  politics  which  may  not 
safely  be  ignored."  "  And  what's  more,"  he  added  angrily, 
"  this  is  a  personal  insult  to  me.  That  law  hits  my  Door 
Strip." 

And  then  out  of  the  clear  sky  like  a  thunderbolt,  not 
from  an  enemy,  not  from  any  clique  or  crowd  he  had 
fought,  but  from  the  government  itself,  during  the  last 
days  of  Congress  came  a  law  creating  a  Department  of 
Commerce  and  Labour  at  Washington,  a  law  giving  federal 
inspectors  the  right  to  go  through  books  of  private  con 
cerns.  Barclay  was  overwhelmed  with  amazement.  He 
raged,  but  to  no  avail ;  and  his  wrath  was  heated  by  the 
rumours  printed  in  all  the  newspapers  that  Barclay  and  the 
National  Provisions  Company  were  to  be  the  first  victims 
of  the  new  law.  Mrs.  Barclay  and  Jeanette  were  going 
to  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1903,  and  Barclay  on  the  whole 
was  glad  of  it.  He  wished  the  decks  cleared  for  his  fight ; 
he  felt  that  he  must  not  have  Jane  at  his  elbow  holding 
his  hand  from  malice  in  the  engagement  that  was  coming, 
and  when  he  left  them  on  the  boat,  he  spent  a  week  scur 
rying  through  the  East  looking  for  some  unknown  enemy 
in  high  financial  circles  who  might  be  back  of  the  govern 
ment's  determination  to  move  against  the  N.P.C.  He 
felt  sure  he  could  uncover  the  source  of  his  trouble  —  and 


328  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

then,  either  fight  his  enemy  or  make  terms.  It  did  not 
occur  to  Barclay  that  he  could  not  find  a  material,  palpa 
ble,  personal  object  upon  which  to  charge  or  with  which  to 
capitulate.  But  he  found  nothing,  and  crossed  the  Alle- 
ghanies  puzzled. 

When  he  got  home,  he  learned  that  a  government  in 
spector,  one  H.  S.  Smith,  was  beginning  the  investigation 
of  the  Provisions  Company's  books  in  St.  Paul,  Omaha, 
Chicago,  and  Denver.  Barclay  learned  that  Smith  had 
secured  some  bills  of  lading  that  might  not  easily  be  ex 
plained.  Incidentally,  Barclay  learned  that  an  attempt 
had  been  made,  through  proper  channels,  to  buy  Smith, 
and  he  was  nonplussed  to  learn  that  Smith  was  not  pur 
chasable.  Then  to  end  the  whole  matter,  Barclay  wrote 
to  Senator  Myton,  directing  him  to  have  Smith  removed 
immediately.  But  Myton's  reply,  which  was  forwarded  to 
Barclay  at  Sycamore  Ridge,  indicated  that  "the  orders 
under  which  Smith  is  working  come  from  a  higher  source 
than  the  department." 

Barclay's  scorn  of  Inspector  Smith — a  man  whom  he 
could  buy  and  sell  a  dozen  times  from  one  day's  income 
from  his  wealth  —  flamed  into  a  passion.  He  tore  Myton's 
letter  to  bits,  and  refreshed  his  faith  in  the  god  of  Things 
As  They  Are  by  garroting  a  mill  in  Texas.  While  the 
Texas  miller  was  squirming,  Barclay  did  not  consider  In 
spector  Smith  consciously,  but  in  remote  places  in  his  mind 
always  there  lived  the  scorned  person  whom  Barclay  knew 
was  working  against  him. 

From  time  to  time  in  the  early  summer  the  newspapers 
contained  definite  statements,  authorized  from  Washington 
with  increasing  positiveness,  that  the  cordon  around  the 
N.P.C.  was  tightening.  In  July  Barclay's  scorn  of  In 
spector  Smith  grew  into  disquietude  ;  for  a  letter  from  Judge 
Bemis,  of  the  federal  court,  —  written  up  in  the  Catskills, 
—  warned  him  that  scorn  was  not  the  only  emotion  with 
which  he  should  honour  Smith.  After  reading  Bemis'  con 
fidential  and  ambiguous  scrawl,  Barclay  drummed  for  a 
time  with  his  hard  fingers  on  the  mahogany  before  him, 
stared  at  the  print  sketches  of  machinery  above  him,  and 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  329 

paced  the  floor  of  his  office  with  the  roar  of  the  mill  an 
swering  something  in  his  angry  heart.  He  could  not  know 
that  the  tide  was  running  out.  He  went  to  his  telephone 
and  asked  for  a  city  so  far  away  that  when  he  had  finished 
talking  for  ten  minutes,  he  had  spent  enough  money  to  keep 
General  Ward  in  comfort  for  a  month.  Neal  Ward,  sitting 
in  his  room,  heard  Bar  clay  say  :  "What  kind  of  a  damn  bunco 
game  were  you  fellows  putting  up  on  me  in  1900  ?  You  got 
my  money  ;  that's  all  right ;  I  didn't  squeal  at  the  assess 
ment,  did  I  ?  "  Young  Ward  in  the  pause  closed  his  door. 
But  the  bull-like  roar  of  Barclay  came  through  the  wood 
between  them  in  a  moment,  and  he  heard  :  "Matter  enough 
—  here's  this  fellow  Smith  bullying  my  clerks  out  in 
Omaha,  and  nosing  around  the  St.  Paul  office  ;  what  right 
has  he  got  ?  Who  is  he,  anyway  —  who  got  him  his  job  ? 
I  wrote  to  Myton  to  get  him  removed,  or  sent  to  some  other 
work,  and  Myton  said  that  the  White  House  was  back  of 
him.  I  wish  you'd  go  over  to  Washington,  and  tell  them 
who  I  am  and  what  we  did  for  you  in  '96  and  1900  ;  we 
can't  stand  this.  It's  a  damned  outrage,  and  I  look  to  you 
to  stop  it."  In  a  moment  Ward  heard  Barclay  exclaim: 
"  You  can't  —  why,  that's  a  hell  of  a  note  !  What  kind  of 
a  fellow  is  he,  anyway  ?  Tell  him  I  gave  half  a  million  to 
the  party,  and  I've  got  some  rights  in  this  government  that 
a  white  man  is  bound  to  respect  —  or  does  he  believe  in 
taking  your  money  and  letting  you  whistle  ?  "  A  train 
rolling  by  the  mill  drowned  Barclay's  voice,  but  at  the  end 
of  the  conversation  Ward  heard  Barclay  say :  "  Well, 
what's  a  party  good  for  if  it  doesn't  protect  the  men  who 
contribute  to  its  support?  You  simply  must  do  it.  I 
look  to  you  for  it.  You  got  my  good  money,  and  it's  up 
to  you  to  get  results*" 

There  was  some  growling,  and  then  Barclay  hung  up 
the  receiver.  But  he  was  mad  all  day,  and  dictated  a 
panic  interview  to  Ward,  which  Ward  was  to  give  to  the 
Associated  Press  when  they  went  to  Chicago  the  next 
day.  In  the  interview,  Barclay  said  that  economic  con-  Y 
ditions  were  being  disturbed  by  half-baked  politicians, 
and  that  values  would  shrink  and  the  worst  panic  in  the 


330  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

history  of  the  country  would  follow  unless  the  socialistic 
meddling  with  business  was  stopped. 

The  summer  had  deepened  to  its  maturest  splendour 
before  Barclay  acknowledged  to  himself  his  dread  of  the 
City.  For  he  began  to  feel  a  definite  discomfiture  at  the 
panorama  of  his  pictures  on  the  news-stands  in  connec 
tion  with  the  advertising  of  the  Sunday  newspapers  and 
magazines.  The  newspapers  were  blazoning  to  the  whole 
country  that  the  Economy  Door  Strip  was  a  blind  for  tak 
ing  railroad  rebates,  and  everywhere  he  met  the  report 
of  Inspector  Smith  that  the  National  Provisions  Com 
pany's  fifty-pound  sack  of  Barclay's  Best  contained  but 
forty-eight  pounds  and  ten  ounces  ;  also  that  Barclay  had 
been  taking  three  ounces  out  of  the  pound  cartons  of 
breakfast  food,  and  that  the  cracker  packages  were  grow 
ing  smaller,  while  the  prices  were  not  lowered.  Even  in 
Sycamore  Ridge  the  reporters  appeared  with  exasperat 
ing  regularity,  and  the  papers  were  filled  with  diverting 
articles  telling  of  the  Barclays'  social  simplicity  and  re 
hashing  old  stories  of  John  Barclay's  boyhood.  His 
attempt  to  stop  the  investigation  of  the  National  Pro 
visions  Company  became  noised  around  Washington,  and 
the  news  of  his  failure  was  frankly  given  out  from  the 
White  House.  This  inspired  a  cartoon  from  McCutch- 
eon  in  the  Chicago  Tribune,  representing  the  President 
weighing  a  flour  sack  on  which  was  printed  "  Barclay's 
Worst,"  with  Barclay  behind  the  President  trying  to  get 
his  foot  on  the  scales. 

All  of  his  life  Barclay  had  been  a  fighter ;  he  liked  to 
hit  arid  dodge  or  get  hit  back.  His  struggles  in  business 
and  in  the  business  part  of  politics  had  been  with  tangi 
ble  foes,  with  material  things ;  and  his  weapons  had  been 
material  things :  coercion,  bribery  (more  or  less  sugar- 
coated),  cheating,  and  often  in  these  later  years  the  roar 
of  his  voice  or  the  power  of  his  name.  But  now,  facing 
the  formless,  impersonal  thing  called  public  opinion, 
hitherto  unknown  in  his  scheme  of  things,  he  was  filled 
with  uncertainty  and  indecision. 

One    autumn  day,  after   sending   three   stenographers 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  331 

home  limp  and  weary  with  directions  for  his  battles, 
Barclay  strayed  into  McHurdie's  shop.  The  general  and 
Dolan  were  the  only  members  of  the  parliament  present 
that  afternoon,  besides  Watts.  Barclay  nodded  at  the 
general  without  speaking,  and  Dolan  said :  — 

"  Cool,  ain't  it  ?     Think  it  will  freeze  ?  " 

Barclay  took  a  chair,  and  when  Dolan  and  Ward  saw 
that  he  had  come  for  a  visit,  they  left. 

"  Watts,"  asked  Barclay,  after  the  others  had  gone,  and 
the  little  man  at  the  bench  did  not  speak,  "Watts,  what's 
got  into  the  people  of  this  country?  What  have  I  done 
that  they  should  begin  pounding  me  this  way  ?  " 

McHurdie  turned  a  gentle  smile  on  his  visitor,  knowing 
that  Barclay  would  do  the  talking.  Barclay  went  on: 
"  Here  are  five  suits  in  county  courts  in  Texas  against  me ; 
a  suit  in  Kansas  by  the  attorney-general,  five  or  ten  in  the 
Dakotas,  three  in  Nebraska,  one  or  two  in  each  of  the 
Lake  states,  and  the  juries  always  finding  against  me.  I 
haven't  changed  my  methods.  I'm  doing  just  what  I've 
done  for  fifteen  years.  I've  had  lots  of  lawsuits  before, 
with  stockholders  and  rival  companies  and  partners,  and 
millers  and  all  that  —  but  this  standing  in  front  of  the  mob 
and  fighting  them  off  —  why  ?  Why  ?  What  have  I  done  ? 
These  county  attorneys  and  attorneys-general  seem  to  de 
light  in  it — now  why?  They  didn't  used  to;  it  used  to 
be  that  only  cranks  like  old  Phil  Ward  even  talked  of 
such  things,  and  people  laughed  at  them  ;  and  now  prose 
cuting  attorneys  actually  do  these  things,  and  people  re- 
elect  them.  Why?  What's  got  into  the  people ?  What 
am  I  doing  that  I  haven't  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Maybe  the  pebple  are  growing  honest,  John,"  sug 
gested  the  harness  maker  amiably. 

Barclay  threw  back  his  head  and  roared :  "  Naw  —  naw 
—  it  isn't  that;  it's  the  damn  newspapers.  That's  what 
it  is  I  They're  what's  raising  the  devil.  But  why  ? 
Why  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  Why,  they  have  even  bull 
dozed  some  of  my  own  federal  judges — my  own  men, 
Watts,  my  own  men;  men  whose  senators  came  into  my 
office  with  their  hats  in  their  hands  and  asked  permission 


332  A   CERTAIN   RICH  MAN 

to  name  these  judges.  Now  why  ?  "  He  was  silent  awhile 
and  then  began  chuckling:  "  But  I  fixed  'em  the  other  day. 
Did  you  see  that  article  in  all  the  papers  briefed  out 
of  New  York  about  how  that  professor  had  said  that  the 
N.P.C.  was  an  economic  necessity?  I  did  that,  Watts:  and 
got  it  published  in  the  magazines,  too  —  and  our  advertis 
ing  agents  made  all  the  newspapers  that  get  our  advertising 
print  it  —  and  they  had  to."  Barclay  laughed.  After  a 
moody  silence  he  continued :  "  And  you  know  what  I  could 
do.  I  could  finance  a  scheme  to  buy  out  the  meat  trust  and 
the  lumber  trust,  and  I  could  control  every  line  of  advertis 
ing  that  goes  into  the  damn  magazines  —  and  I  could  buy 
the  paper  trust  too,  and  that  would  fix  'em.  The  Phil 
Wards  are  not  running  this  country  yet.  The  men  who 
make  the  wealth  and  maintain  the  prosperity  have  got  to 
run  it  in  spite  of  the  long-nosed  reformers  and  socialists. 
You  know,  Watts,  that  we  men  who  do  things  have  a 
divine  responsibility  to  keep  the  country  off  the  rocks. 
But  she's  drifting  a  lot  just  now,  and  they're  all  after  me, 
because  I'm  rich.  That's  all,  Watts,  just  because  I've 
worked  hard  and  earned  a  little  money  —  that's  why." 
And  so  he  talked  on,  until  he  was  tired,  and  limped  home 
and  sat  idly  in  front  of  his  organ,  unable  to  touch  the  keys. 

Then  he  turned  toward  the  City  to  visit  his  temporal 
kingdom.  There  in  the  great  Corn  Exchange  Building 
his  domain  was  unquestioned.  There  in  the  room  with 
the  mahogany  walls  he  could  feel  his  power,  and  stanch 
the  flow  of  his  courage.  There  he  was  a  man.  But  alas 
for  human  vanity  !  When  he  got  to  the  City,  he  found  the 
morning  papers  full  of  a  story  of  a  baby  that  had  died 
from  overeating  breakfast  food  made  at  his  mills  and 
adulterated  with  earth  from  his  Missouri  clay  banks,  as  the 
coroner  had  attested  after  an  autopsy  ;  and  a  miserable 
county  prosecutor  was  looking  for  John  Barclay.  So  he 
hid  all  the  next  day  in  his  offices,  and  that  evening  took 
Neal  Ward  on  a  special  train  in  his  private  car,  on  a  round 
about  way  home  to  Sycamore  Ridge. 

It  was  a  wretched  homecoming  for  so  great  and  success 
ful  a  man  as  Barclay.     Yet  he  with  all  his  riches,  with 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  333 

all  his  material  power,  even  he  longed  for  the  safety  of 
home,  as  any  hunted  thing  longs  for  his  lair.  On  the 
way  he  paced  the  diagonals  of  the  little  office  room  in  his 
car,  like  a  caged  jackal.  The  man  had  lost  his  anchor  ; 
the  things  which  his  life  had  been  built  on  would  not 
hold  him.  Money  —  men  envied  the  rich  nowadays,  he 
said,  and  the  rich  man  had  no  rights  in  the  courts  or  out 
of  them  ;  friends  —  they  had  gone  up  in  the  market,  and 
he  could  not  afford  them  ;  politics  —  he  had  found  it  a 
quicksand.  So  he  jabbered  to  Neal  Ward,  his  secretary, 
and  pulled  down  the  curtains  of  his  car  on  the  station  side 
of  every  stop  the  train  made  in  its  long  day's  journey. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  special  train  pulled 
into  S}^camore  Ridge,  and  Neal  Ward  hurried  home. 
He  went  to  his  room,  and  found  there  a  letter  and  a 
package,  both  addressed  in  Jeanette's  handwriting.  The 
letter  was  only  a  note  that  read:  — 

"  MY  DEAREST  BOY  :  I  could  not  wait  to  send  it  for  your  Christ 
mas  present.  So  I  am  sending  it  the  very  day  it  is  finished.  I  hope 
it  will  bring  me  close  to  you  —  into  your  very  heart  and  keep  ine  there. 
I  have  kissed  it  —  for  I  knew  that  you  would. 

"  Your  loving  JEANETTE." 

He  tore  open  the  package  and  found  a  miniature  of 
Jeanette  done  on  ivor;  —  that  seemed  to  bring  her  into 
the  room,  and  illumine  it  with  her  presence.  The  thing 
bloomed  with  life,  and  his  heart  bounded  with  joy  as  his 
eyes  drank  the  beauty  of  it.  His  father  called  from  below 
stairs,  and  the  youth  went  down  holding,  the  note  and  the 
miniature  in  his  hands.  Before  the  father  could  speak, 
the  son  held  out  the  picture,  and  Philemon  Ward  looked 
for  a  moment  into  the  glowing  faces  —  that  of  the  picture 
and  that  of  the  living  soul  before  him,  and  hesitated  be 
fore  speaking. 

"  I  got  your  wire  —  "  he  began. 

"But  isn't  it  beautiful,  father  —  wonderful  I  "  broke  in 
the  son. 

The  father  assented  kindly  and  then  continued  :  "  So  I 
thought  I'd  sit  up  for  you.  I  had  to  talk  with  you." 
The  son's  face  looked  an  interrogation,  and  the  father  an 
swered,  "  Read  that,  Neal  — '  handing  his  son  a  letter  in 
a  rich  linen  envelope  bearing  in  the  corner  the  indication 
that  it  was  written  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Club  in  Wash 
ington.  The  lovely  face  in  the  miniature  lay  on  the  table 
between  them  and  smiled  up  impartially  at  father  and  son 
as  the  young  man  drew  out  the  letter  and  read  :  — 

334 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  335 

"MY  DEAR  GENERAL  WARD:  This  letter  will  introduce  to  you 
Mr.  H.  S.  Smith,  an  inspector  from  the  Bureau  of  Commerce  and 
Labour,  who  has  been  working  upon  evidence  connected  with  the 
National  Provisions  Company.  I  happened  to  be  at  luncheon  this 
afternoon  with  a  man  of  the  highest  official  authority,  whose  name  it 
would  be  bad  faith  to  divulge,  but  whom  I  know  you  respect,  even 
if  you  do  not  always  agree  with  him.  I  mentioned  your  name  and 
the  part  you  took  in  the  battle  of  the  Wilderness,  and  my  friend  was 
at  once  interested,  though,  of  course,  he  had  known  you  by  name  and 
fame  for  forty  years.  One  word  led  to  another,  as  is  usual  in  these 
cases,  and  my  friend  mentioned  the  fact  that  your  son,  Neal  Dow 
Ward,  is  secretary  to  John  Barclay,  and  in  a  position  to  verify  certain 
evidence  which  the  government  now  has  in  the  N.P.C.  matter.  I 
happen  to  know  that  the  government  is  exceedingly  anxious  to  be 
exactly  correct  in  every  charge  it  makes  against  this  Company,  and 
hence  I  am  writing  to  you.  Your  son  can  do  a  service  to  his  country 
to-day  by  telling  the  truth  when,  he  is  questioned  by  Inspector  Smith, 
to  my  mind  as  important  as  that  you  did  in  the  Wilderness.  In 
spector  Smith  has  a  right  to  question  him,  and  will  do  so,  and  I  have 
promised  my  friend  here  to  ask  you  to  counsel  with  your  son,  and  beg 
him  in  the  name  of  that  good  citizenship  for  which  you  have  always 
stood,  and  for  which  you  offered  your  life,  to  tell  the  simple  truth. 
As  a  comrade  and  a  patriot,  I  have  no  doubt  what  you  will  do,  know 
ing  the  facts." 

Neal  Ward  put  his  hand  on  the  table,  with  the  letter 
still  in  his  fingers.  "  Father,"  he  asked  blankly,  "  do  you 
know  what  that  means  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Neal,  I  think  I  understand  ;  it  means  that  to 
morrow  morning  will  decide  whether  you  are  a  patriot  or 
a  perjurer,  my  boy  —  a  patriot  or  a  perjurer  !  "  The  gen 
eral,  who  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  collaiiess,  rose,  and 
putting  his  hands  behind  him,  backed  to  the  radiator  to 
warm  them. 

"  But,  father  —  father,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  "how  can  I  ? 
What  I  learned  was  in  confidence.  How  can  I  ?  " 

The  father  saw  the  anguish  in  his  son's  face,  and  did 
not  reply  at  once.  "  Is  it  crooked,  Neal  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  son,  and  then  added :  "  So  bad  I  was 
going  to  get  out  of  it,  as  soon  as  Jeanette  came  home.  I 
couldn't  stand  it  —  for  a  life,  father.  But  I  promised  to 
stay  three  years,  and  try,  and  I  think  I  should  keep  my 
promise." 

The  father  and  son  were  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  the 


336  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

father  spoke.  "  And  you  love  her  with  all  your  life  — 
don't  you,  Nealie  ?  "  The  son  was  gazing  intently  at  the 
miniature  and  nodded.  At  length  the  father  sighed.  "  My 
poor,  poor  boy  —  my  poor,  poor  boy."  He  walked  to  the 
table  on  which  were  his  books  and  papers,  and  then  stood 
looking  at  the  girl's  face.  "  You  couldn't  explain  it  to 
her,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  the  son.  "  No  ;  she  adores  her  father  ;  to 
her  he  is  perfect.  And  I  don't  blame  her,  for  he  is  good 

—  you  can't  know  how  good,  to  her."     Again  they  stood 
in  silence.     The  son  looked  up  from  the  picture  and  said, 
"  And  you  know,  father,  what  the  world  would  think  of  me 

—  a  spy,  an  informer  —  an  ingrate  ?  " 

The  old  man  did  not  reply,  and  the  son  shook  his  head 
and  his  face  twitched  with  the  struggle  that  was  in  him. 
Suddenly  the  father  walked  to  the  son  and  cried  :  "  And 
yet  you  must,  Neal  Ward  —  you  must.  Is  there  any  con 
fidence  in  God's  world  so  sacred  as  your  duty  to  mankind  ? 
Is  there  any  tie,  even  that  of  your  wife,  so  sacred  as  that 
which  binds  you  to  humanity  ?  I  left  your  mother,  my 
sweetheart,  and  went  out  to  fight,  with  the  chance  of 
never  seeing  her  again.  I  went  out  and  left  her  for  the 
same  country  that  is  calling  you  now,  Neal  !  "  The  boy 
looked  up  with  agony  on  his  face.  The  father  paused  a 
moment  and  then  went  on  :  "  Your  soul  is  your  soul  — 
not  John  Barclay's,  my  boy  —  not  Jeanette  Barclay's  — 
but  yours  —  yours,  Neal,  to  blight  or  to  cherish,  as  you 
will."  A  moment  later  he  added,  "Don't  you  see,  son  — 
don't  you  see,  Neal  ? "  The  son  shook  his  head  and 
looked  down,  and  did  not  answer.  The  father  put  his  arm 
about  the  son.  "  Boy,  boy,"  he  cried,  "boy,  you've  got  a 
a  man's  load  on  you  now  —  a  man's  load.  To-morrow  you 
can  run  away  like  a  coward  ;  you  can  dodge  and  lie  like 
a  thief,  or  you  can  tell  the  simple  truth,  as  it  is  asked  of 
you,  like  a  man  —  the  simple  truth  like  a  man,  Neal." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  father  —  I  see  it  all  —  but  it  is  so  hard  — 
for  her  sake,  father." 

The  old  man  was  silent,  while  the  kitchen  clock  ticked 
away  a  minute  and  then  another  and  a  third.  Then  he 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  337 

took  his  arm  away  from  his  son,  and  grasped  the  boy's 
hand.  "  Oh,  little  boy  —  little  boy,"  he  cried,  "  can't  I  make 
you  see  that  the  same  God  who  has  put  this  trial  upon  you 
will  see  you  through  it,  and  that  if  you  fail  in  this  trial, 
your  soul  will  be  crippled  for  life,  and  that  no  matter  what 
you  get  in  return  for  your  soul  —  you  will  lose  in  the  bar 
gain  ?  Can't  you  see  it,  Nealie  —  can't  you  see  it  ?  All 
my  life  I  have  been  trying  to  live  that  way,  and  I  have 
tried  to  make  you  see  it  —  so  that  you  would  be  ready  for 
some  trial  like  this." 

The  son  rose,  and  the  two  men  stood  side  by  side,  clasp 
ing  hands.  The  boy  suddenly  tore  himself  loose,  and 
throwing  his  hands  in  the  air,  wailed,  "  Oh,  God  —  it  is  too 
hard  —  I  can't,  father  —  I  can't." 

And  with  the  miniature  in  his  hand  he  walked  from  the 
room,  and  Philemon  Ward  went  to  his  closet  and  wrestled 
through  the  night.  At  dawn  his  son  sat  reading  and  re 
reading  a  letter.  Finally  he  pressed  another  letter  to  his 
lips,  and  read  his  own  letter  again.  It  read  :  — 

"  MY  DARLING  GIRL  :  This  is  the  last  letter  I  shall  ever  mail  to 
you,  perhaps.  I  can  imagine  no  miracle  that  will  bring  us  together 
again.  My  duty,  as  I  see  it,  stands  between  us.  The  government 
inspector  is  going  to  put  me  under  oath  to-morrow  —  unless  I  run, 
and  I  won't  —  and  question  me  about  your  father's  business.  What 
I  must  tell  will  injure  him  —  maybe  ruin  him.  I  am  going  to  tell 
your  father  what  I  am  going  to  do  before  I  do  it.  But  by  all  the  faith 
I  have  been  taught  in  a  God  —  and  you  know  I  am  not  pious,  and 
belong  to  no  church  —  I  am  forced  to  do  this  thing.  Oh,  Jeanette, 
Jeanette  —  if  I  loved  you  less,  I  would  take  you  for  this  life  alone  and 
sell  my  soul  for  you;  but  I  want  you  for  an  eternity  —  and  in  that 
eternity  I  want  to  bring  you  an  unsoiled  soul.  Good-by —  oh,  good- 
by.  NEAL." 

The  next  morning  when  Neal  Ward  went  out  of  the 
office  at  the  mill,  John  Barclay  sat  shivering  with  wrath 
and  horror.  Every  second  stamped  him  with  its  indelible 
finger,  as  a  day,  or  a  month,  puts  its  stain  on  other  men. 

Another  morning,  a  week  later,  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  a 
telegram  from  his  office  manager  in  the  city  fluttered  in  his 
hands.  It  read  :  "  We  are  privately  advised  that  you  were 
indicted  by  the  federal  grand  jury  last  night  —  though  we 


338  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

do  not  know  upon  what  specific  charge  —  our  friend  R 
will  advise  us  later  in  the  day." 

It  was  a  gray  December  day,  and  a  thin  film  of  ice 
covered  the  mill-pond.  Barclay  looked  there  and  shud 
dered  away  from  the  thought  that  came  to  him.  He  Avas 
alone  in  the  mill.  He  longed  for  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and  yet  when  he  thought  of  their  home-coming  to  disgrace, 
he  shook  with  agony.  Over  and  over  again  he  whispered 
the  word  "indicted."  The  thought  of  his  mother  and 
her  sorrow  broke  him  down.  He  locked  the  door,  dropped 
heavily  into  his  chair,  and  bowed  his  head  on  his  crossed 
arms.  And  then  — 

What,  tears  ?  Tears  for  Mr.  Barclay?  —  for  himself  ? 
Look  back  along  the  record  for  his  life:  there  are  many 
tears  charged  to  his  account,  but  none  for  his  own  use. 
Back  in  the  seventies  there  are  tears  of  Miss  Culpepper, 
charged  to  Mr.  Barclay,  and  one  heart-break  for  General 
Hendricks.  Again  in  the  eighties  there  is  sorrow  for  Mr. 
Robert  Hendricks,  and  more  tears  for  Mrs.  Brownwell, 
that  was  Miss  Culpepper — all  charged  to  the  account  of 
Mr.  Barclay;  and  in  the  early  nineties  there  are  some  manly 
tears  for  Martin  F.  Culpepper,  also  charged  to  Mr.  Barclay 
—  but  none  before  for  his  own  use.  Are  they,  then,  tears 
of  repentance  ?  No,  not  tears  for  the  recording  angel,  not 
good,  man's  size,  soul-washing  tears  of  repentance,  but 
miserable,  dwarf,  useless,  self-pitying,  corroding  tears  — 
tears  of  shame  and  rage,  for  the  proud,  God-mocking,  man- 
cheating,  powerful,  faithless,  arrogant  John  Barclay,  dealer 
in  the  Larger  Good. 

And  so  with  his  head  upon  his  arms,  and  his  arms  upon 
his  desk,  —  a  gray-clad,  gray-haired,  slightly  built,  time- 
racked  little  figure, — John  Barclay  strained  his  soul  and 
wrenched  his  body  and  tried  in  vain  to  weep. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Dowx  comes  the  curtain.  Only  a  minute  does  John 
Barclay  sit  there  with  his  head  in  his  arms,  and  then,  while 
you  are  stretching  your  legs,  or  reading  your  programme,  or 
looking  over  the  house  to  see  who  may  be  here,  up  rises 
John  Barclay,  and  while  the  stage  carpenters  are  setting 
the  new  scene,  he  is  behind  there  telephoning  to  Chicago, 
to  Minneapolis,  to  Omaha,  to  Cleveland,  to  Buffalo,  —  he 
fairly  swamps  the  girl  with  expensive  long-distance  calls, 
—  trying  to  see  if  there  is  not  some  way  to  stop  the  filing 
of  that  indictment.  For  to  him  the  mere  indictment  ad 
vertises  to  mankind  that  money  is  not  power,  and  with  him 
and  with  all  of  his  caste  and  class  a  confession  of  weak 
ness  is  equivalent  to  a  confession  of  wrong.  For  where 
might  makes  right,  as  it  does  in  his  world,  weakness  spells 
guilt,  and  with  all  the  people  jeering  at  him,  with  the 
press  saying:  "Aha,  so  they  have  got  Mr.  Barclay,  have 
they  ?  Well,  if  all  his  money  and  all  his  power  could 
not  prevent  an  indictment,  he  must  be  a  pretty  tough 
customer,"  —  with  the  public  peering  into  his  private  books 
and  papers  in  a  lawsuit,  confirming  as  facts  all  that  they 
had  read  in  the  newspapers,  in  short  with  the  gold  plating 
of  respectability  rubbed  off  his  moral  brass,  he  feels  the 
crushing  weight  of  the  indictment,  as  he  limps  up  and 
down  his  room  at  the  mill  and  frets  at  the  long-distance 
operator  for  being  so  slow  with  his  calls. 

But  he  is  behind  the  scenes  now ;  and  so  is  Neal  Ward, 
walking  the  streets  of  Chicago,  looking  for  work  on  a 
newspaper,  and  finally  finding  it.  And  so  are  Mrs.  Jane 
Barclay  and  Miss  Barclay,  as  they  sail  away  on  their  ten 
days'  cruise  of  the  Mediterranean.  And  while  the  or 
chestra  plays  and  the  man  in  the  middle  of  row  A  of  the 
dress  circle  edges  out  of  his  seat  and  in  again,  we  cannot 
hear  John  Barclay  sigh  when  the  last  telephone  call  is 

339 


340  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

answered,  and  he  finds  that  nothing  can  be  done.  And 
he  is  not  particularly  cheered  by  the  knowledge  that  the 
Associated  Press  report  that  very  afternoon  is  sending  all 
over  the  world  the  story  of  the  indictment.  But  late  in 
the  afternoon  Judge  Bemis,  in  whose  court  the  indict 
ment  was  found,  much  to  his  chagrin,  upon  evidence 
furnished  by  special  counsel  sent  out  from  Washington — 
Judge  Bemis  tells  him,  as  from  one  old  friend  to  another, 
that  the  special  counsellor  isn't  much  of  a  lawyer.  The 
pleasant  friendly  little  rip-saw  laugh  of  the  judge  over  the 
telephone  nearly  a  thousand  miles  away  is  not  distinct 
enough  to  be  heard  across  the  stage  even  if  the  carpenters 
were  not  hammering,  and  the  orchestra  screaming,  and  the 
audience  buzzing ;  but  that  little  laugh  of  his  good  friend, 
Judge  Bemis,  was  the  sweetest  sound  John  Barclay  had 
heard  in  many  a  day.  It  seemed  curious  that  he  should 
so  associate  it,  but  that  little  laugh  seemed  to  drown  the 
sound  of  a  clicking  key  in  a  lock — a  large  iron  lock,  that 
had  been  rattling  in  his  mind  since  noon.  For  even  in 
the  minds  of  the  rich  and  the  great,  even  in  the  minds  of 
men  who  fancy  they  are  divinely  appointed  to  parcel  out 
to  their  less  daring  brethren  the  good  things  of  this  world, 
there  is  always  a  child's  horror  of  the  jail.  So  when  Mr. 
Barclay,  who  was  something  of  a  lawyer  himself,  heard  his 
good  friend,  Judge  Bemis,  laugh  that  pleasant  little  friendly 
laugh  behind  the  scenes,  the  heart  of  Mr.  Barclay  gave  a 
little  pulse-beat  of  relief  if  not  of  joy. 

But  an  instant  later  the  blight  of  the  indictment  was 
over  him  again.  Hammer  away,  and  scream  away,  and 
buzz  away  with  all  your  might,  you  noises  of  the  play 
house  ;  let  us  not  hear  John  Barclay  hastening  across  the 
bridge  just  before  the  early  winter  sunset  comes,  that  he 
may  intercept  the  Index  and  the  Banner  in  the  front  yard 
of  the  Barclay  home,  before  his  mother  sees  them. 
Always  heretofore  he  has  been  glad  to  have  her  read  of  his 
achievements,  in  the  hope  that  she  would  come  to  approve 
them,  and  to  view  things  as  he  saw  them — his  success 
and  his  power  and  his  glory.  But  to-night  he  hides  the 
paper  under  his  gray  coat  and  slips  into  the  house.  She 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  341 

and  her  son  sit  down  to  dinner  alone.  This  must  be  a 
stage  dinner  they  are  eating  —  though  it  is  all  behind  the 
scenes  ;  for  Mr.  Barclay  is  merely  going  through  the  empty 
form  of  eating.  "  No,  thank  you,"  for  the  roast.  "  Why, 
Mr.  Barclay  did  not  touch  his  soup  !  "  "  Well,"  says  the 
cook,  tasting  it  critically,  "  that's  strange."  And  "No, 
thank  you "  for  the  salad,  and  "  Not  any  pie  to-night, 
Clara."  "What  —  none  of  the  mince  pie,  John  ?  Why, 
I  went  out  in  the  kitchen  and  made  it  for  you  myself." 
"Well,  a  little." 

Heigh-ho!  We  sigh,  and  we  drum  on  our  table-cloth 
with  our  fingers,  and  we  are  trying  to  find  some  way  to 
tell  something.  We  have  been  a  bad  boy,  maybe  —  a  bad 
little  boy,  and  must  own  up;  that  is  part  of  our  punish 
ment  —  the  hardest  part  perhaps,  even  with  the  curtain 
down,  even  with  the  noise  in  front,  even  with  the  maid 
gone,  even  when  a  mother  comes  and  strokes  our  head,  as 
we  sit  idly  at  the  organ  bench,  unable  to  sound  a  key. 
Shall  the  curtain  go  up  now?  Shall  we  sit  gawking 
while  a  boy  gropes  his  way  out  of  a  man's  life,  back  through 
forty  years,  and  puts  his  head  in  shame  and  sorrow  against 
a  mother's  breast  ?  How  he  stumbles  and  falters  and  halts, 
as  the  truth  comes  out  —  and  it  must  come  out;  on  the 
whole  the  best  thing  there  is  to  say  of  John  Barclay  on 
that  fateful  December  day  in  the '  year  of  our  Lord  1903 
is  that  he  did  not  let  his  mother  learn  the  truth  from  any 
lips  but  his.  And  so  it  follows  naturally,  because  he  was 
brave  and  kind,  that  instead  of  having  to  strengthen  her, 
she  sustained  him  —  she  in  her  seventies,  he  in  his  fifties. 

"  My  poor  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  I  know  —  I  know. 
But  don't  worry,  John  —  don't  worry.  I  don't  mind. 
Jane  won't  mind,  I  am  sure,  and  I  know  Jennie  will  under 
stand.  It  isn't  what  even  we  who  love  you  think  of  you, 
John  —  it  is  what  you  are  that  counts.  Oh,  Johnnie, 
Johnnie,  maybe  you  could  serve  your  country  and  human 
ity  in  jail  —  by  showing  the  folly  and  the  utter  uselessness 
of  all  this  money-getting,  just  as  your  father  served  it  by 
dying.  I  would  not  mind  if  it  made  men  see  that  money 
isn't  the  thing  —  if  it  made  you  see  it,  my  boy;  if  you 


342  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

could  come  out  of  a  jail  with  that  horrible  greed  for  money 
purged  from  you  —  " 

But  no  —  we  will  not  peep  behind  the  curtain ;  we  will 
not  dwell  with  John  Barclay  as  he  walked  all  night  up  and 
down  the  great  living  room  of  his  home.  And  see,  the 
footlights  have  winked  at  the  leader  of  the  orchestra,  to  let 
him  know  he  is  playing  too  long;  observe,  how  quickly 
the  music  dies  down — rather  too  quickly,  for  the  clatter 
of  cast  iron  is  heard  on  the  stage,  and  the  sound  of  hurried 
footsteps  is  audible,  as  of  some  one  moving  rapidly  about 
behind  the  curtain.  The  rattling  iron  you  hear  is  the  stove 
in  Watts  McHurdie's  shop;  they  have  just  set  it  up,  and 
got  it  red  hot:  for  it  is  a  cold  day,  that  fifteenth  day  of 
December,  1903,  and  the  footsteps  you  hear  are  those  of 
the  members  of  the  harness  shop  parliament. 

Ah!  There  goes  the  curtain,  and  there  sits  Watts 
astraddle  of  his  bench,  working  Avith  all  his  might,  for  he 
has  an  order  to  sew  sleigh-bells  on  a  breast  strap,  for  some 
festivity  or  another;  and  here  sits  the  colonel,  and  over 
there  the  general,  and  on  his  home-made  chair  Jacob  Dolan 
is  tilted  back,  warming  his  toes  at  the  stove.  They  are  all 
reading — all  except  Watts,  who  is  working;  on  the  floor 
are  the  Chicago  and  St.  Louis  evening  papers,  and  the 
Omaha  and  Kansas  City  morning  papers.  And  on  the 
first  pages  of  all  of  these  papers  are  pictures  of  John  Bar 
clay.  There  is  John  Barclay  in  the  Bee,  taken  in  his 
Omaha  office  by  the  Bees  own  photographer  —  a  new 
picture  of  Mr.  Barclay,  unfamiliar  to  the  readers  of  most 
newspapers.  It  shows  the  little  man  standing  by  a  desk, 
smiling  rather  benignly  with  his  sharp  bold  eyes  fixed  on 
the  camera.  There  is  a  line  portrait  of  Mr.  Barclay  in  the 
Times,  one  of  recent  date,  showing  the  crow's-feet  about 
the  eyes,  the  vertical  wrinkle  above  the  nose,  and  the 
furtive  mouth,  hard  and  naked,  and  the  square  mean  jaw, 
that  every  cartoonist  of  Barclay  has  emphasized  for  a 
dozen  years.  And  there  are  other  pictures  of  Mr.  Bar 
clay  in  the  papers  on  the  floor,  and  the  first  pages  of  the 
papers  are  filled  with  the  news  of  the  Barclay  indictment. 
All  over  this  land,  and  in  Europe,  the  news  of  that  indict- 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  343 

ment  caused  a  sensation.  In  the  Times,  there  on  the  floor, 
is  an  editorial  comment  upon  the  indictment  of  Barclay 
cabled  from  London,  another  from  Paris,  and  a  third  from 
Berlin.  It  was  a  big  event  in  the  world,  an  event  of  more 
than  passing  note  —  this  sudden  standing  up  of  one  of  the 
richest  men  of  his  land,  before  the  front  door  of  a  county 
jail.  Big  business,  and  little  business  that  apes  big  busi 
ness,  dropped  its  jaw.  The  world  is  not  accustomed 
to  think  of  might  making  wrong,  so  when  a  Charles  I  or 
a  Louis  XVI  or  a  John  Barclay  comes  to  harm,  the 
traditions  of  the  world  are  wrenched.  Men  say:  "How 
can  these  things  be  —  if  might  makes  right?  Here  is  a 
case  where  might  and  right  conflict  —  how  about  it? 
Jails  are  for  the  poor,  not  for  the  rich,  because  the  poor 
are  wrong  and  the  rich  are  right,  and  no  just  man  made 
perfect  by  a  million  should  be  in  jail." 

And  so  while  the  members  of  the  parliament  in  Watts 
McIIurdie's  shop  read  and  were  disturbed  at  the  strange 
twist  of  events,  the  whole  world  was  puzzled  with  them, 
and  in  unison  with  Jacob  Dolan,  half  the  world  spoke,  "  I 
see  no  difference  in  poisoning  breakfast  foods  and  poison 
ing  wells,  and  it's  no  odds  to  me  whether  a  man  pinches  a 
few  ounces  out  of  my  flour  sack,  or  steals  my  chickens." 

And  the  other  half  of  the  world  was  replying  with 
Colonel  Culpepper,  "  Oh,  well,  Jake,  now  that's  all  right 
for  talk ;  but  in  the  realms  of  high  finance  men  are  often 
forced  to  be  their  own  judges  of  right  and  wrong,  and 
circumstances  that  we  do  not  appreciate,  cannot  under 
stand,  in  point  of  fact,  nor  comprehend,  if  I  may  say  so, 
intervene,  and  make  what  seems  wrong  in  small  trans 
actions,  trivial  matters  and  pinch-penny  business,  seem 
right  in  the  high  paths  of  commerce." 

The  general  was  too  deeply  interested  in  reading  what 
purported  to  be  his  son's  testimony  before  Commissioner 
Smith,  to  break  into  the  discussion  at  this  point,  so  Dolan 
answered,  "From  which  I  take  it  that  you  think  that 
Johnnie  down  at  the  mill  keeps  a  private  God  in  his  pri 
vate  car." 

The  colonel  was  silent  for  a  time ;  he  read  a  few  lines 


344  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

and  looked  into  space  a  moment,  and  then  replied  in  a 
gentle  husky  voice  :  "  Jake,  what  do  we  know  about  it  ? 
The  more  I  think  how  every  man  differs  from  his  neighbour, 
and  all  our  sins  are  the  result  of  individual  weakness  at  the 
end  of  lonely  struggles  with  lonely  temptations  —  the 
more  I  think  maybe  there  is  something  in  what  you  say, 
and  that  not  only  John  but  each  of  us  —  each  of  us  under 
this  shining  sun,  sir  —  keeps  his  private  God." 

"  You'll  have  to  break  that  news  gently  to  the  Pope," 
returned  Dolan.  "  I'll  not  try  it.  Right's  right,  Mart 
Culpepper,  and  wrong's  wrong  for  me  and  for  Johnnie  Bar 
clay,  white,  black,  brown,  or  yellow  —  'tis  the  same." 

"  There's  nothing  in  your  theory,  Mart,"  cut  in  the  gen 
eral,  folding  his  paper  across  his  knee  ;  "  not  a  thing  in 
the  world.  We're  all  parts  of  a  whole,  and  the  only 
way  this  is  an  individual  problem  at  all — this  working  out 
of  the  race's  destiny  —  is  that  the  whole  can't  improve  so 
long  as  the  parts  don't  grow.  So  long  as  we  all  are  like 
John  Barclay  save  in  John's  courage  to  do  wrong,  laws 
won't  help  us  much,  and  putting  John  in  jail  won't  do  so 
very  much  —  though  it  may  scare  the  cowards  until  John's 
kind  of  crime  grows  unpopular.  But  what  we  must  have 
is  individual  —  " 

Tinkle  goes  the  bell  over  Watts  McHurdie's  head — the 
bell  tied  to  a  cord  that  connects  with  the  front  door. 
Down  jumps  Watts,  and  note  the  play  of  the  lights  from 
the  flies,  observe  that  spot  light  moving  toward  R.  U.  E., 
there  by  the  door  of  the  shop.  Yes,  all  ready ;  enter  John 
Barclay.  See  that  iron  smile  on  his  face  ;  he  has  not  sur 
rendered.  He  has  been  clean-shaven,  and  entering  that 
door,  he  is  as  spick  and  span  as  though  he  were  on  a 
wedding  journey.  Give  him  a  hand  or  a  hiss  as  you  will, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  John  Barclay  has  entered  at  the 
Right  Upper  Entrance,  and  the  play  may  proceed. 

"  Well,"  he  grinned,  "  I  suppose  you  are  talking  it  over. 
Colonel,  has  the  "jury  come  to  a  verdict  yet  ?  " 

What  a  suave  John  Barclay  it  was;  how  admirably  he 
held  his  nerve ;  not  a  quiver  in  the  face,  not  a  ruffle  of  the 
voice.  The  general  looked  at  him  over  his  spectacles,  and 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  345 

icould  not  keep  the  kindness  out  of  his  eyes.  "  What  a  brick 
|you  are  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  and  Jake  Dolan,  conquered 
:by  the  simplicity  of  it,  surrendered. 

"  Oh,  well,  John,  I  suppose  we  all  have  our  little  troub 
les,"  said  Jake.  Only  that ;  the  rack  of  the  inquisitor 
Igrew  limp.  And  Colonel  Culpepper  rose  and  gave  Bar- 
|clay  his  hand  and  spoke  not  a  word.  The  silence  was 
i  awkward,  and  at  the  end  of  a  few  moments  the  colonel 
jfound  words. 

"  How,"  he  asked  in  his  thick  asthmatic  voice,  mushy 
with  emotion,  "  how  in  the  world  did  this  happen,  John  ? 
i  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

Barclay  looked  at  the  general ;  no,  he  did  not  glare, 
for  John  Barclay  had  grown  tame  during  the  night,  al 
most  docile,  one  would  say.  But  he  did  not  answer  at 
first,  and  Watts  McHurdie,  bending  over  his  work, 
chuckled  out :  "  Ten  miles  from  Springfield,  madam  — 
ten  miles  from  Springfield."  And  then  John  sloughed 
off  thirty  years  and  laughed.  And  the  general  laughed, 
and  the  colonel  smiled,  and  Jake  Dolan  took  John  Bar 
clay's  hand  from  the  colonel,  and  said :  — • 

"  The  court  adjudges  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  pay 
the  assembled  company  four  of  those  cigars  in  his  inside 
pocket,  and  stand  committed  until  the  same  is  paid." 

And  then  there  was  a  scratching  of  matches,  and  a  puff- 
ling,  and  Barclay  spoke  :  "  I  knew  there  was  one  place  on 
jearth  where  I  was  welcome.  The  mill  is  swarming  with  re 
porters,  and  I  thought  I'd  slip  away.  They'll  not  find  me> 
here."  The  parliament  smoked  in  silence,  and  again  Bar. 
clay  said,  "Well,  gentlemen,  it's  pretty  tough — pretty 
tough  to  work  all  your  life  to  build  up  an  industry  and 
in  the  end  —  get  this." 

"  Well,  John,"  said  the  general,  as  he  rolled  up  his  news 
paper  and  put  it  away,  "  I'm  sorry  —  just  as  sorry  as  Mart 
is ;  not  so  much  for  the  indictment,  that  is  all  part  of  the- 
inevitable  consequence  of  your  creed;  if  it  hadn't  been  the 
indictment,  it  would  have  been  something  else,  equally  sad 
—  don't  you  see,  John  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  think,  General,"  retorted  Bar- 


346  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

clay,  bitterly.  "  I  know  your  idea ;  you  think  it's  retribu 
tion." 

"Not  exactly  that  either,  John  —  just  the  other  side  of 
the  equation.  You  have  reaped  what  you  sowed,  and  I 
am  sorry  for  what  you  sowed.  God  gave  you  ten  talents, 
John  Barclay  —  ten  fine  talents,  my  boy,  and  you  wrapped 
them  in  a  napkin  and  buried  them  in  the  ground,  buried 
them  in  greed  and  cunning  and  love  of  power,  and  you 
are  reaping  envy  and  malice  and  cruelty.  You  were  effi 
cient,  John  ;  oh,  if  I  had  been  as  efficient  as  you,  how  much 
I  could  have  done  for  this  world  —  how  much  —  how 
much  I "  he  mused  wistfully. 

Barclay  did  not  reply,  but  his  face  was  hard,  and  his 
neck  was  stiff,  and  he  was  not  moved.  He  was  still  the 
implacable  Mr.  Barclay,  the  rich  Mr.  Barclay,  and  he 
would  have  no  patronage  from  old  Phil  Ward — Phil 
Ward  the  crank,  who  was  a  nation's  joke.  Ting-a-ling 
went  the  bell  over  Watts  McHurdie's  head,  and  the  little 
man  climbed  down  from  his  bench  and  hurried  into  the 
shop.  But  instead  of  a  customer,  Mr.  J.  K.  Mercheson, 
J.  K.  Mercheson  representing  Barber,  Hancock,  and  Kohn, 
—  yes,  the  whip  trust ;  that's  what  they  call  it,  but  it  is 
really  an  industrial  organization  of  the  trade,  —  Mr.  J.  K. 
Mercheson  of  New  York  came  in.  No,  McHurdie  did 
not  need  anything  at  present,  and  he  backed  into  the  shop. 
He  had  all  of  the  goods  in  that  line  that  he  could  carry 
just  now ;  and  he  sidled  toward  his  seat.  The  members 
of  the  parliament  effaced  themselves,  as  loafers  do  in  every 
busy  place  when  business  comes  up ;  the  colonel  got  behind 
his  paper,  Barclay  hid  back  of  the  stove,  Dolan  examined  a 
bit  of  harness,  and  the  general  busied  himself  picking  up 
the  litter  on  the  floor,  and  folding  the  papers  with  the 
pictures  of  Barclay  inside  so  that  he  would  not  be  annoyed 
by  them.  But  Mr.  Mercheson  knew  how  to  get  orders ; 
he  knew  that  the  thing  to  do  is  to  stay  with  the  trade. 

So  he  leaned  against  the  work  bench  and  began  :  — 

"  This  is  a  great  town,  Mr.  McHurdie  ;  we're  always 
hearing  from  Sycamore  Ridge.  When  I'm  in  the  East 
'they  say,  '  What  kind  of  a  town  is  that  Sycamore  Ridge 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  347 

where  Watts  McHurdie  and  your  noted  reformer,  Robert 
Hendricks,  who  was  offered  a  place  in  the  cabinet,  and 
this  man  John  Barclay  live? ' : 

Mr.  Mercheson  paused  for  effect.  Mr.  McHurdie 
smiled  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

"  Say,"  said  Mr.  Mercheson,  "  your  man  Barclay  is  in 
all  the  papers  this  morning.  I  was  in  the  smoker  of  the 
sleeper  last  evening  coming  out  of  Chicago,  and  we  got  to 
talking  about  him  —  and  Lord,  how  the  fellows  did  roast 
him." 

"  They  did  ?  "  asked  Barclay,  from  his  chair  behind  the 
stove. 

"  Sure,"  replied  Mr.  Mercheson ;  "  roasted  him  good 
and  brown.  There  wasn't  a  man  in  the  smoker  but  me 
to  stand  up  for  him." 

"  So  you  stood  up  for  the  old  scoundrel,  did  you  ? " 
asked  Barclay. 

"  Sure,"  answered  the  travelling  man.  "  Anything  to 
get  up  an  argument,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  beginning 
to  see  which  way  sentiment  lay  in  the  shop.  "  I've  been 
around  town  this  morning,  and  I  find  the  people  here 
don't  approve  of  him  for  a  minute,  any  more  than  they  did 
on  the  train." 

"  What  do  they  say  ?  "  asked  Barclay,  braiding  a  four- 
strand  whip,  and  finding  that  his  cunning  of  nearly  fifty 
years  had  not  left  his  fingers. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  so  much  what  they  say  —  but  you  can  tell, 
don't  you  know  ;  it's  what  they  don't  say  ;  they  don't 
defend  him.  I  guess  they  like  him  personally,  but  they 
know  he's  a  thief  ;  that's  the  idea  —  they  simply  can't 
defend  him  and  they  don't  try.  The  government  has  got 
him  dead  to  rights.  Say,"  he  went  on,  "  just  to  be  argu 
ing,  you  know  last  evening  I  took  a  poll  of  the  train  — 
the  limited — the  Golden  State  Limited — swell  train,  swell 
crowd — all  rich  old  roosters ;  and  honest,  do  you  know 
that  out  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-three  votes  polled 
only  four  were  for  him,  and  three  of  those  were  girls  who 
said  they  knew  his  daughter  at  the  state  university,  and 
had  visited  at  his  house.  Wasn't  that  funny  ?  " 


348  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Barclay  laughed  grimly,  and  answered,  "Well,  it  was 
pretty  funny  considering  that  I'm  John  Barclay." 

The  suspense  of  the  group  in  the  shop  was  broken,  and 
they  laughed,  too. 

"  Oh,  hell,"  said  Mr.  Mercheson,  "  come  off ! "  Then  he 
turned  to  McHurdie  and  tried  to  talk  trade  to  him.  But 
Watts  was  obdurate,  and  the  man  soon  left  the  shop,  eying 
Barclay  closely.  He  stood  in  the  door  and  said,  as  he 
went  out  of  the  store,  "  Well,  you  do  look  some  like  his 
pictures,  Mister." 

There  was  a  silence  when  the  stranger  went,  and  Barclay, 
whose  face  had  grown  red,  cried,  "Damn  'em — damn 
'em  all  —  kick  a  man  when  he  is  down!" 

Again  the  bell  tinkled,  and  McHurdie  went  into  the 
shop.  Evidently  a  customer  was  looking  at  a  horse  collar, 
for  through  the  glass  door  they  could  see  Watts'  hook  go 
up  to  the  ceiling  and  bring  one  down. 

"John,"  said  the  colonel,  when  Barclay  had  spoken, 
"  John,  don't  mind  it.  Look  at  me,  John — look  at  me  1 
They  had  to  put  me  in  jail,  you  know ;  but  every  one 
seems  to  have  forgotten  it  but  me — and  I  am  a  dog  that 
I  don't." 

John  Barclay  looked  at  the  old,  broken  man,  discarded 
from  the  playing-cards  of  life,  with  the  hurt,  surprised 
look  always  in  his  eyes,  and  it  was  with  an  effort  that  the 
suave  Mr.  Barclay  kept  the  choke  in  his  throat  out  of  his 
voice  as  he  replied:  — 

"  Yes,  Colonel,  yes,  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  kick 
against  the  pricks." 

Watts  was  saying:  "Yes,  he's  in  there  now — with  the 
boys;  you  better  go  in  and  cheer  him  up." 

And  then  at  the  upper  right-hand  entrance  entered 
Gabriel  Carnine,  president  of  the  State  Bank,  unctuous 
as  a  bishop.  He  ignored  the  others,  and  walking  to  Bar 
clay,  put  out  his  hand.  "  Well,  well,  John,  glad  to  see  you; 
just  came  up  from  the  mill  —  I  was  looking  for  you. 
Couldn't  find  Neal,  either.  Where  is  he?" 

The  general  answered  curtly,  "Neal  is  in  Chicago, 
working  on  the  Record- Her  aid." 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  349 

"Oh,"  returned  Carnine,  and  did  not  pursue  the  sub 
ject  further.  "  Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  fine  winter 
weather  we're  having." 

"  Is  that  so  ? "  chipped  in  Dolan.  "  Mr.  Barclay  was 
finding  it  a  little  mite  warm." 

Carnine  ignored  Dolan,  and  Barclay  grinned.  "  Well, 
John,"  Carnine  hesitated,  "  I  was  just  down  to  see  you — - 
on  a  little  matter  of  business." 

"  Delighted,  sir,  delighted,"  exclaimed  Dolan,  as  he  rose 
to  go;  "we  were  going,  anyway — weren't  we,  General?  " 
The  veterans  rose,  and  Colonel  Culpepper  said  as  he  went, 
"I  told  Molly  to  call  for  me  here  about  noon  with  the 
buggy  —  if  she  comes,  tell  her  to  wait." 

All  of  life  may  not  be  put  on  the  stage,  and  this  scene 
has  to  be  cut;  for  it  was  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour's 
aimless,  footless,  foolish  talk  that  Gabriel  Carnine  came 
to  the  business  in  hand.  Round  and  round  the  bush  he 
beat  the  devil,  before  he  hit  him  a  whack.  Then  he  said, 
as  if  it  had  just  occurred  to  him,  "  We  were  wondering  — 
some  of  the  directors  —  this  morning,  if  under  the  circum 
stances  —  oh,  say  just  for  the  coming  six  months  or  such 
a  matter  —  it  might  not  be  wise  to  reorganize  our  board; 
freshen  it  up,  don't  you  know;  kind  of  get  some  new 
names  on  it,  and  drop  the  old  ones  —  not  permanently, 
but  just  to  give  the  other  stockholders  a  show  on  the 
board." 

"  So  you  want  me  to  get  off,  do  you  ?  "  blurted  Barclay. 
"  You're  afraid  of  my  name  —  now?" 

The  screams  of  Mr.  Carnine,  the  protesting  screams  of 
that  oleaginous  gentleman,  if  they  could  have  been  vocal 
ized  in  keeping  with  their  muffled,  low-voiced,  whispering 
earnestness,  would  have  been  loud  enough  to  be  heard  a 
mile  away,  but  Barclay  talked  out:  — 

"  All  right,  take  my  name  off;  and  out  comes  my  account. 
I  don't  care." 

And  thereupon  the  agony  of  Mr.  Carnine  was  unutter 
able.  If  he  had  been  a  natural  man,  he  would  have 
howled  in  pain;  as  it  was,  he  merely  purred.  But  Bar 
clay's  skin  was  thin  that  day,  sensitive  to  every  touch, 


350  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

and  he  felt  the  rough  hand  of  Carnine  and  winced.  He 
let  the  old  man  whine  and  pur  and  stroke  his  beard 
awhile,  and  then  Barclay  said  wearily,  "  All  right,  just  as 
you  please,  Gabe  —  I'll  not  move  my  account.  It's 
nothing  to  me." 

In  another  minute  the  feline  foot  of  Mr.  Carnine  was 
pattering  gently  toward  the  front  door.  Barclay  sat 
looking  at  the  stove,  and  Watts  went  on  working.  Bar 
clay  sighed  deeply  once  or  twice,  but  McHurdie  paid  no 
heed  to  him.  Finally  Barclay  rose  and  went  over  to  the 
bench. 

"  Watts,"  cried  Barclay,  "  what  do  you  think  about  it 
—  you,  your  own  self,  what  do  you  think  way  down  in 
your  heart  ?  " 

Watts  sewed  a  stitch  or  two  without  speaking,  and  then 
put  down  his  thread  and  put  up  his  glasses  and  said, 
"  That's  fairly  spoken,  John  Barclay,  and  will  have  a 
fair  answer." 

The  old  man  paused;  Barclay  cried  impatiently,  "  Oh, 
well,  Watts,  don't  be  afraid  —  nothing  can  hurt  me  much 
now!  " 

"  I  was  just  a-thinking,  lad,"  said  Watts,  gently,  "  just 
a-thinking." 

"What?"  cried  Barclay. 

"  Just  a-thinking,"  returned  the  old  man,  as  he  put  his 
hand  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder,  "what  a  fine  poet 
you  spoiled  in  your  life,  just  to  get  the  chance  to  go  to  jail. 
But  the  Lord  knows  His  business,  I  suppose  !  "  he  added 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "and  if  He  thinks  a  poet 
more  or  less  in  jail  would  help  more  than  one  out  —  it 
is  all  for  the  best,  John,  all  for  the  best.  But,  my  boy,"  he 
cried  earnestly,  "if  you'll  be  going  to  jail,  don't  whine, 
lad.  Go  to  jail  like  a  gentleman,  John  Barclay,  go  to 
jail  like  a  gentleman,  and  serve  your  Lord  there  like 
a  man." 

"Damn  cheerful  you  are,  Watts,"  returned  Barclay. 
"What  a  lot  of  Job's  comforters  you  fellows  have  been 
this  morning."  He  went  on  half  bitterly  and  half  jok 
ingly:  "Beginning  with  the  general,  continuing  with 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  351 

your  travelling  salesman  friend,  and  following  up  with 
Gabe,  who  wants  me  to  get  off  the  board  of  directors  of 
his  bank  for  the  moral  effect  of  it,  and  coming  on  down 
to  you  who  bid  me  Godspeed  to  jail  —  I  have  had  a  —  a 

—  a  rather  gorgeous  morning." 

The  door-bell  tinkled,  and  a  woman's  voice  called, 
"  Father,  father ! " 

"Yes,  Molly,"  the  harness  maker  answered;  "he'll  be 
here  pretty  soon.  He  said  for  you  to  wait." 

"  Come  in,  for  heaven's  sake,  Molly,"  cried  Barclay, 
"come  back  here  and  cheer  me  up." 

"  Oh,  all  right  —  it's  you,  John  ?  What  are  you  doing 
back  here  ?  I'm  so  glad  to  find  you.  I've  just  got  the 
dearest  letter  from  Jane.  We  won't  talk  business  or  any 
thing  —  you  know  how  I  feel,  and  how  sorry  I  am  —  so 
just  let's  read  Jane's  letter;  it  has  something  in  it  to 
cheer  you.  She  said  she  was  going  to  write  it  to  you  the 
next  day  —  but  I'll  read  it  to  you."  And  so  Mrs.  Brown- 
well  took  from  her  pocketbook  the  crumpled  letter  and 
unfolded  it.  "It's  so  like  Jane  —  just  good  hard  sense 
clear  through."  She  turned  the  pages  hastily,  and  finally 
the  fluttering  of  the  sheets  stopped.  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  said, 
"here's  the  place — the  rest  she's  told  you.  Let  me  see  — 
Oh  :  4  And,  Molly,  what  do  you  think  ?  —  there's  a  duke 
after  Jeanette  —  a  miserable,  little,  dried-up,  burned-out, 
poverty-stricken  Italian  duke.  And  oh,  how  much  good 
it  did  us  both  to  cut  him,  and  let  him  know  how  ill-bred 
we  considered  him,  how  altogether  beneath  any  whole 
some  honest  girl  we  thought  such  a  fellow.'  And  now, 
John,  isn't  this  like  Jane  ?  "  interposed  Mrs.  Brownwell. 
"  Listen ;  she  says,  '  Molly,  do  you  know,  I  am  so  happy 
about  Jeanette  and  Neal.  We  run  such  an  awful  risk 
with  this  money  —  such  a  horrible  risk  of  unhappiness  and 
misery  for  the  poor  child  —  heaven  knows  she  would  be  so 
much  happier  without  it.  And  to  think,  dear,  that  she 
has  found  the  one  in  the  world  for  her,  in  the  sweet  simple 
way  that  a  girl  should  always  find  him,  and  that  the  money 

—  the  menacing  thing  that  hangs  like  a  shadow  over  her  — 
cannot  by  any  possibility  spoil  her  life  1     It  makes  me 


352  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

happy  all  the  day,  and  I  go  singing  through  life  with  joy 
at  the  thought  that  the  money  won't  hurt  Jennie  —  that 
it  can't  take  from  her  the  joy  that  comes  from  living  with 
her  lover  all  her  life,  as  I  have  lived.'  Isn't  that  fine, 
John  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Brownwell,  and  looking  up,  she  saw 
John  Barclay,  white-faced,  with  trembling  jaw,  staring  in 
pain  at  the  stove.  Watts  had  gone  into  the  store  to  wait 
on  a  customer,  and  the  woman,  seeing  the  man's  anguish, 
came  to  him  and  said :  "  Why,  John,  what  is  it  ?  How 
have  I  hurt  you?  —  I  thought  this  would  cheer  you  so." 

The  man  rose  heavily.  His  colour  was  coming  back. 
"  Oh,  God  —  God,"  he  cried,  "  I  needed  that  to-day  —  I 
needed  that." 

The  woman  looked  at  him,  puzzled  and  nonplussed. 
"  Why  —  why  —  why  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  he  smiled  back  at  her  bitterly,  "  ex 
cept  — "  and  his  jaw  hardened  as  he  snapped  —  "  except 
that  Neal  Ward  is  a  damned  informer  —  and  I've  sent 
him  about  his  business,  and  Jeanette's  got  to  do  the  same." 

Mollie  Brownwell  looked  at  him  with  hard  eyes  for  a 
moment,  and  then  asked,  "  What  did  Neal  do  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Barclay,  "  under  cross-examination,  I'll 
admit  without  incriminating  myself  that  he  gave  the  testi 
mony  which  indicted  me." 

"Was  it  that  or  lie,  John?"  He  did  not  reply.  A 
silence  fell,  and  the  woman  broke  it  with  a  cry  :  "  Oh, 
John  Barclay,  John  Barclay,  must  your  traffic  in  souls 
reach  your  own  flesh  and  blood  ?  Haven't  you  enough 
without  selling  her  into  Egypt,  too  ?  Haven't  you 
enough  money  now  ?  "  And  without  waiting  for  answer, 
Molly  Brownwell  turned  and  left  him  staring  into  noth 
ing,  with  his  jaw  agape. 

It  was  noon  and  a  band  was  playing  up  the  street,  and 
as  he  stood  by  the  stove  in  McHurdie's  shop,  he  remem 
bered  vaguely  that  he  had  seen  banners  flying  and  some 
"  Welcome  "  arches  across  the  street  as  he  walked  through 
the  town  that  morning.  He  realized  that  some  lodge  or 
conclave  or  assembly  was  gathering  in  the  town,  and  that 
the  band  was  a  part  of  its  merriment.  It  was  playing  a 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  353 

gay  tune  and  came  nearer  and  nearer.  But  as  he  stood 
leaning  upon  his  chair,  with  his  heart  quivering  and  raw 
Tom  its  punishment,  he  did  not  notice  that  the  band  had 
-Bopped  in  front  of  the  harness  shop.  His  mind  went 
<ack  wearily  to  the  old  days,  fifty  years  before,  when  as  a 
toddling  child  in  dresses  he  used  to  play  on  that  very 
scrap-heap  outside  the  back  door,  picking  up  bits  of 
leather,  and  in  his  boyhood  days,  playing  pranks  upon  the 
little  harness  maker,  and  braiding  his  whips  for  the  town 
herd.  Then  he  remembered  the  verses  Watts  had  written 
about  Bob  Hendricks  and  him  in  that  very  room,  and  the 
music  he  and  Watts  had  played  together  there.  The  old 
song  Watts  had  made  in  his  presence  in  the  hospital  at 
St.  Louis  caine  back  to  his  mind.  Did  it  come  because 
outside  the  band  had  halted  and  was  playing  that  old  song 
to  serenade  Watts  McIIurdie  ?  Or  did  it  come  because 
John  Barclay  was  wondering  if,  had  he  made  a  poet  of 
himself,  or  a  man  of  spiritual  and  not  of  material  power, 
it  would  have  been  better  for  him? 

Heaven  knows  why  the  old  tune  came  into  his  head. 
But  when  he  recognized  that  they  were  serenading  the 
little  harness  maker,  and  that  so  far  as  they  thought  of 
John  Barclay  and  his  power  and  his  achievements,  it 
was  with  scorn,  he  had  a  flash  of  insight  into  his  relations 
with  the  world  that  illumined  his  soul  for  a  moment  and 
then  died  away.  The  great  Mr.  Barclay,  alone,  sitting  in 
the  dingy  little  harness  shop,  can  hear  the  band  strike  up 
the  old  familiar  tune  again,  and  hear  the  crowd  cheer  and 
roar  its  applause  at  the  little  harness  maker,  who  stands 
shamefaced  and  abashed,  coatless  and  aproned,  before  the 
crowd.  And  he  is  only  a  poet  —  hardly  a  poet,  would  be 
a  better  way  to  say  it;  an  exceedingly  bad  poet  who  makes 
bad  rhymes,  and  thinks  trite  thoughts,  and  says  silly  and 
often  rather  stupid  things,  but  who  once  had  his  say, 
and  for  that  one  hour  of  glorious  liberty  of  the  soul  has 
moved  millions  of  hearts  to  love  him.  John  Barclay  does 
not  envy  Watts  McHurdie  —  not  at  all;  for  Barclay,  with 
all  his  faults,  is  not  narrow-gauged;  he  does  not  wish  they 
would  call  for  him  —  not  to-day  —  not  at  all;  he  could  not 

2A 


354  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

face  them  now,  even  if  they  cheered  him.  He  says  in  his 
heart  of  pride,  beneath  his  stiff  neck,  that  it  is  all  right ; 
that  Watts,  —  poor  little  church-mouse  of  a  Watts,  whom 
he  could  buy  five  times  over  with  the  money  that  has 
dropped  into  the  Barclay  till  since  he  entered  the  shop  — 
that  Watts  should  have  his  due ;  but  only  —  only  —  only 
• —  that  is  it  —  only,  but  only  —  I 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AND  now  as  we  go  out  into  the  busy  world,  after  this 
act  in  the  dawning  of  John  Barclay's  life,  let  the  court 
convene,  and  the  reporters  gather,  and  the  honourable 
special  counsel  for  the  government  rage,  and  the  defendant 
sit  nervous  and  fidgety  as  the  honourable  counsel  reads  the 
indictment;  let  the  counsel  for  the  defendant  swell  and 
strut  with  indignation  that  such  indignities  should  be  put 
upon  honest  men  and  useful  citizens,  and  let  the  court 
frown,  and  ponder  and  consider;  for  that  is  what  courts 
are  for,  but  what  do  we  care  for  it  all?  We  have  left  it  all 
behind,  with  the  ragged  programmes  in  the  seats.  So  if 
the  honourable  court,  in  the  person  of  the  more  or  less 
honourable  Elijah  Westlake  Bemis,  after  the  fashion  of 
federal  judges  desiring  to  do  a  questionable  thing,  calls 
in  a  judge  from  a  neighbouring  court  —  what  do  we  care? 
And  if  the  judge  of  the  neighbouring  court,  after  much 
legal  hemming  and  judicial  hawing,  decides  in  his  great 
wisdom — thac  A,he  said  defendant  Barclay  has  been  charged 
in  the  indictment  with  no  crime,  and  instructs  the  jury  to 
find  a  verdict  of  not  guilty  for  said  defendant  John  Bar 
clay,  upon  the  mere  reading  of  the  indictment,  —  what  are 
the  odds?  What  do  we  care  if  the  men  in  the  packed 
courtroom  hiss  and  the  reporters  put  down  the  hisses  in 
their  note-books  and  editors  write  the  hisses  in  headlines, 
and  presses  print  the  hisses  all  over  the  world?  For  the 
fidgety  little  man  is  free  now  —  entirely  free  save  for  fifty- 
four  years  of  selfish  life  upon  his  shoulders. 

In  the  trial  of  nearly  every  cause  it  becomes  necessary 
at  some  point  in  the  proceedings  to  halt  the  narrative  and 
introduce  certain  exhibits,  records,  and  documents,  upon 
which  foregone  evidence  has  been  based,  and  to  which 
coming  testimony  may  properly  be  attached.  That  point 
has  been  reached  in  the  case  now  before  the  reader.  And 

355 


356  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

as  "  Exhibit  A "  let  us  submit  a  letter  written  by  John 
Barclay,  January  seventh,  nineteen  hundred  and  four, 
to  Jane,  his  wife,  at  Naples. 

«  As  I  cabled  you  this  afternoon,  the  case  resulted  exactly  as  I  said 
it  would  the  day  after  the  indictment.  I  had  not  seen  or  talked  with 
Lige  since  that  day  I  talked  with  him  over  the  telephone,  before  the 
indictment  was  made  public,  but  I  knew  Lige  well  enough  to  know 
how  he  would  act  under  fire.  I  had  him  out  to  dinner  this  evening, 
and  we  talked  over  old  times,  and  he  tells  me  he  wants  to  retire  from 
the  bench.  Jane,  Lige  has  been  my  mainstay  ever  since  this  com 
pany  was  organized.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  without  his  help  in  poli 
tics —  looking  to  see  that  pernicious  legislation  was  killed,  and  that 
the  right  men  were  elected  to  administrative  offices,  and  appointed  to 
certain  judicial  places — we  never  would  have  been  able  to  get  the 
company  to  its  present  high  standing.  I  feel  that  he  has  been  so 
valuable  to  us  that  we  should  settle  a  sum  on  him  that  will  make 
him  a  rich  man  as  men  go  in  the  Ridge.  Heaven  knows  that  is  little 
enough,  considering  all  that  he  has  done.  He  may  have  his  faults, 
Jane,  but  he  has  been  loyal  to  me. 

"  I  hope,  my  dear,  that  Jeanette  has  ceased  to  worry  about  the  other 
matter;  he  is  not  worth  her  tears.  Don't  come  home  for  a  month  or 
two  yet.  The  same  conditions  prevail  that  I  spoke  of  in  my  first  cable 
the  day  of  the  indictment.  The  press  and  the  public  are  perfectly 
crazy.  America  is  one  great  howling  mob,  and  it  would  make  you 
and  Jennie  unhappy.  As  for  me,  I  don't  mind  it.  You  know  me." 

And  that  the  reader  may  know  how  truthful  John  Bar 
clay  is,  let  us  append  herewith  a  letter  written  by  Mrs. 
Mary  Barclay,  of  Sycamore  Ridge,  to  her  granddaughter 
at  Naples,  January  15,  1904.  She  writes  among  other 
things:  — 

**  Well,  dear,  it  is  a  week  now  since  your  father's  case  was  settled, 
and  he  was  at  home  for  the  first  time  last  night.  I  expected  that 
his  victory — such  as  it  was  —  would  cheer  him  up,  but  some  way  he 
seems  worse  in  the  dumps  than  he  was  before.  He  does  not  sleep 
well,  and  is  getting  too  nervous  for  a  man  of  his  age.  I  have  the  im 
pression  that  he  is  forever  battling  with  something.  Of  course  the 
public  temper  is  bitter,  dearie.  You  are  a  woman  now,  and  should 
not  be  shielded  and  pampered  with  lies,  so  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
truth.  The  indignation  of  the  people  of  this  nation  at  your  father, 
as  he  represents  present  business  methods,  is  past  belief.  And  frankly, 
dearie,  I  can't  blame  them.  Your  father  and  my  son  is  a  brave,  sweet, 
loving  man  ;  none  could  be  finer  in  this  world,  Jennie.  But  the  head 
of  the  National  Provisions  Company  is  another  person,  dear;  and  of 
him  I  do  not  approve,  as  you  know  so  well.  I  am  sending  you  Neal 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  357 

Ward's  statement  which  was  published  by  the  government  the  day 
after  the  case  was  dismissed.  I  have  not  sent  it  to  you  before,  because 
I  wanted  to  ask  your  father  if  it  was  true.  Jennie,  he  admits  that 
Neal  told  the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth  —  and  did  not  make  it 
as  bad  as  it  was.  You  are  entitled  to  the  facts.  You  are  a  grown 
woman  now,  dear,  and  must  make  your  own  decisions.  But  oh,  my 
dear  little  girl,  I  am  heartsick  to  see  your  father  breaking  as  he  is. 
He  seems  to  be  fighting  —  fighting  —  fighting  all  the  time;  perhaps 
it  is  against  the  flames  of  public  wrath,  but  some  way  I  think  he  is 
fighting  something  inside  himself  —  fighting  it  back ;  fighting  it  down 
—  whatever  it  is." 

Counsel  also  begs  indulgence  while  he  introduces  and 
reads  two  clippings  from  the  Sycamore  Ridge  Daily  Ban 
ner*  of  February  12,  1904.  The  first  one  reads  :  — 


44  JUDGE  BEMIS  RETIRES 

"  Hon.  E.  W.  Bemis  has  retired  from  the  federal  bench,  and  rumour 
has  it  that  he  is  soon  to  return  with  his  estimable  wife  to  our  midst. 
Our  people  will  welcome  the  judge  and  Mrs.  Bemis  with  open  arms. 
He  retires  from  an  honourable  career,  to  pass  his  declining  years  in 
the  peace  and  quiet  of  the  town  in  which  he  began  his  career  over 
fifty  years  ago.  For  as  every  one  knows,  he  came  West  as  a  boy,  and 
before  having  been  admitted  to  the  bar  dealt  largely  in  horses  and 
cattle.  He  has  always  been  a  good  business  man,  having  with  his 
legal  acumen  the  acquisitive  faculty,  and  now  he  is  looking  for  some 
place  to  invest  a  modest  competence  here  in  the  Ridge,  and  rumour 
has  it  again  that  he  is  negotiating  for  the  purchase  of  the  Sycamore 
Ridge  Waterworks  bonds,  which  are  now  in  litigation.  If  so,  he 
will  make  an  admirable  head  of  that  popular  institution." 

In  this  connection,  and  before  introducing  the  other 
clipping  from  the  Banner,  it  would  be  entirely  proper  to 
introduce  the  manuscript  for  the  above,  in  the  typewrit 
ing  of  the  stenographer  of  Judge  Bemis's  court,  and  a 
check  for  fifty  dollars  payable  to  Adrian  Brown  well, 
signed  by  Judge  Bemis  aforesaid;  but  those  documents 
would  only  3log  the  narrative  and  would  not  materially 
strengthen  the  case,  so  they  will  be  thrown  out. 

The  second  clipping,  found  in  the  personal  column  of 
the  Banner  of  the  date  referred  to,  February  12,  1904, 
follows  :  — 


358  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

"Mrs.  John  Barclay  and  Miss  Barclay  are  on  the  steamer  Etruria 
which  was  sighted  off  Fire  Island  to-day.  They  will  spend  a  few 
weeks  in  New  York,  and  early  in  March  Miss  Barclay  will  enter  the 
state  university  to  do  some  post-graduate  work  in  English,  and  Mrs* 
Barclay  will  return  to  Sycamore  Ridge.  Mr.  Barclay  will  meet  them 
at  the  pier,  and  they  expect  to  spend  the  coining  two  weeks  attending 
German  opera.  Mrs.  Mary  Barclay  left  to-day  for  the  East  to  join  them. 
She  will  remain  a  month  visiting  relatives  near  Haverhill,  Mass." 

It  becomes  necessary  to  append  some  letters  of  Miss 
Jeanette  Barclay's,  and  they  are  set  down  here  in  the  order 
in  which  they  were  written,  though  the  first  one  takes  the 
reader  back  a  few  weeks  to  December  5, 1903.  It  was  posted 
at  Rome,  and  in  the  body  of  it  are  found  these  words  :  — 

"  My  dear,  I  know  you  will  smile  when  you  hear  I  have  been  read 
ing  all  the  Italian  scientific  books  I  can  find,  dealing  with  the  human 
brain  —  partly  to  help  my  Italian,  but  chiefly,  I  think,  to  see  if  I  can 
find  and  formulate  some  sort  of  a  definition  for  love.  It  is  so  much  a 
part  of  my  soul,  dear  heart,  that  I  would  like  to  know  more  about  it. 
And  I  am  going  to  write  down  for  you  what  I  think  it  is  as  we  know 
it.  I  have  been  wearing  your  ring  nearly  three  years,  Neal,  and  if 
you  had  only  known  it,  I  would  have  been  happy  to  ha've  taken  it  a 
year  sooner.  In  those  four  years  I  have  grown  from  a  girl  to  a  woman, 
and  you  have  become  aman  full  grown.  In  that  time  all  my  thoughts 
have  centred  on  you.  In  all  my  schoolbooks  your  face  comes  back 
to  me  as  I  open  them  in  fancy.  As  I  think  of  the  old  room  at  school, 
of  my  walk  up  the  hill,  as  I  think  of  home  and  my  room  there,  some 
thought  of  you  is  always  between  me  and  the  picture.  All  through 
my  physical  brain  are  little  fibres  running  to  every  centre  that  bring 
up  images  of  you.  You  are  woven  into  my  life,  and  I  know  in  my 
heart  that  I  am  woven  into  your  life.  The  thing  is  done ;  it  is  as  mucn 
apart  of  my  being  as  my  blood  —those  million  fibres  of  my  brain 
that  from  every  part  of  my  consciousness  bring  thoughts  of  you.  We 
cannot  be  separated  now,  darling  —  we  are  united  for  life,  whether 
we  unite  in  life  or  not.  I  am  yours  and  you  are  mine.  It  is  now  as 
inexorable  as  anything  we  cal]  material.  More  than  that  —  you  have 
made  my  soul.  All  the  aspirations  of  my  spiritual  life  go  to  you  for 
beginning  and  for  being  as  truly  as  the  fibres  of  my  brain  tnrill  to 
the  sound  of  your  name  or  the  mental  image  of  your  face.  My  soul 
is  your  soul,  because  in  the  making  the  thought  of  you  was  uppermost. 
I  know  that  my  love  for  you  is  immortal,  ineffaceable,  and  though 
I  should  live  a  hundred  years,  that  love  would  still  be  as  much  a 
part  of  my  life  as  my  hands  or  my  eyes  or  ray  body.  And  the  best 
of  it  all  is  that  I  am  so  glad  it  is  so.  Divorce  is  as  impossible  with 
a  love  like  that  as  amputation  of  the  brain.  It  is  big  and  vital  in 
me,  real  and  certain,  and  so  long  as  I  live  on  earth,  or  dwell  in 
eternity,  my  soul  and  your  soul  are  knit  together." 


A  CERTAIN  HIGH  MAN  359 

Three  weeks  later,  on  December  28,  1903,  Miss  Barclay 
wrote  to  Mr.  Ward  as  follows:  — 

"  Your  letter  and  father's  letter  were  on  my  desk  when  we  returned 
from  our  cruise.  I  have  just  finished  writing  to  him,  and  I  herewith 
return  your  ring  and  your  pin." 

There  was  neither  signature  nor  superscription — just 
those  words.  And  a  month  later,  Miss  Barclay  wrote 
this  letter  to  her  Grandmother  Barclay  in  Sycamore 

Ridge:  — 

"  MY  DEAR,  DEAR  GRANNY  :  I  have  told  mother  what  you  wrote  of 
father,  and  we  are  coming  home  just  as  soon  as  we  can  get  a  steamer. 
We  are  cabling  him  to-day,  and  hope  to  sail  within  a  week  or  ten  days  at 
the  very  farthest.  But  I  cannot  wait  until  I  see  you,  dear,  to  come  close 
into  your  heart.  And  first  of  all  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  share  your 
views  about  the  heart-break  of  all  this  money  and  the  miserable  man- 
killing  way  it  is  being  piled  up.  I  know  the  two  men  you  speak  of — 
father  and  the  president  of  the  N.P.C.  But  he  is  my  father,  and  I  must 
stand  by  him,  and  brace  him  if  I  can.  But,  oh,  Granny,  I  don't 
want  the  old  money !  It  has  never  made  me  happy  —  never  for  one 
minute.  The  only  happiness  I  have  ever  had  was  when  he  was  at 
home  with  us  all,  away  from  business  —  and  —  but  you  know  about  that 
other  happiness,  and  it  hurts  to  speak  of  it  now.  I  have  not  read 
what  you  sent  me.  I  can't.  But  I  will  keep  it.  That  it  is  true 
doesn't  help  me  any.  Nothing  can  help  me.  It  is  just  one  of  those 
awful  things  that  I  have  read  of  coming  to  people,  but  which  I  thought 
never  could  possibly  come  to  me.  Oh,  Granny,  Granny,  you  who  pray 
so  much  for  others,  now  pray  for  me.  Granny,  you  can't  cut  some 
thing  out  of  you  —  right  out  of  the  heart  of  you,  by  merely  saying 
so ;  it  keeps  growing  back ;  it  hurts,  and  hurts,  and  keeps  hurting ; 
even  if  you  know  it  is  cut  out  and  thrown  away.  They  say  that  men 
who  have  had  legs  cut  off  can  feel  them  for  months  and  even  years 
if  they  are  cramped  when  they  are  buried.  The  nerves  of  the  old 
dead  body  reach  through  space  and  hurt.  It  is  that  way  with  me. 
The  old  dead  thing  in  my  heart  that  is  buried  and  gone  keeps  cramp 
ing  and  hurting.  You  are  the  only  one  I  can  come  to,  Granny.  It 
hurts  mother  too  much,  and  she  is  not  strong  this  winter.  I  think  it 
is  worry.  She  is  growing  thin,  and  her  heart  doesn't  act  right.  I  am 
terribly  worried  about  her;  but  she  made  me  promise  to  say  nothing 
to  father,  and  you  must  not,  either ;  for  he  will  see  for  himself  soon." 

A  few  letters  from  Neal  Ward  to  Jeanette  Barclay, 
and  a  document  some  twenty  years  old,  which  the  reader 
may  have  forgotten,  but  which  one  person  connected  with 
this  narrative  has  feared  would  come  to  light  every  day  in 


360  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

that  time  —  and  then  this  tedious  business  of  introducing 
documentary  evidence  will  be  over.  The  letter  from  Neal 
Ward  to  Jeanette  Barclay  is  one  of  hundreds  that  he  wrote 
and  never  mailed.  They  were  dated,  sealed,  addressed, 
and  put  away.  This  one  was  written  at  midnight  as  the 
bells  and  whistles  and  pistols  and  fireworks  were  wel 
coming  the  year  1904.  It  begins  :  — 

"  MY  VERY  DEAREST  :  Here  I  am  sitting  at  the  old  desk  again,  in 
the  old  office  of  the  Banner.  I  could  only  scribble  you  a  little  note  on 
the  train  last  night  to  tell  you  that  my  heart  still  was  with  you,  and  I 
did  not  have  the  time  to  explain  why  I  was  coming.  It  is  a  dead 
secret,  little  woman,  and  perhaps  I  shouldn't  tell  even  you,  but  I  feel 
that  I  must  bring  everything  to  you.  Bob  Hendricks  wired  me  to 
come  down.  He  has  a  mortgage  on  the  Banner,  and  he  feels  that 
things  are  not  being  properly  managed,  so  he  persuaded  Mr.  Brown- 
well  to  give  me  a  place  as  sort  of  manager  of  the  paper  at  twenty  dol 
lars  a  week  —  a  sum  that  seems  princely  considering  that  I  was  making 
only  eighteen  dollars  in  Chicago,  and  that  it  costs  so  much  less  to  live 
here.  Hendricks  guarantees  my  wages,  so  that  Adrian  cannot  stand 
me  off.  Hendricks  has  another  motive  for  wanting  me  to  come  here. 
The  waterworks  franchise  will  come  up  for  renewal  June  first  of  this 
year,  and  Mr.  Hendricks  is  for  municipal  ownership.  Gamine  and 
the  State  Bank  are  against  municipal  ownership,  because  the  water 
company  does  business  with  them,  and  as  they  control  the  Index,  they 
are  preparing  to  make  a  warm  fight  for  the  renewal  of  the  old  franchise. 
So  there  will  be  a  hot  time  in  the  old  town  this  spring.  But  the  mis 
erable  part  of  it  is  this.  The  growth  of  the  town  has  made  it  danger 
ous  to  use  the  present  supply  station.  The  water  must  not  come  out 
of  the  mill-pond  any  longer,  as  the  town  is  tilted  so  that  all  the  surface 
drainage  goes  into  it,  and  the  sewers  that  drain  into  it,  while  they 
drain  a  few  hundred  yards  below  the  intake  of  the  waterworks,  cannot 
help  tainting  the  whole  pond.  Mr.  Hendricks  has  had  an  expert  here 
who  declared  that  both  the  typhoid  and  diphtheria  epidemics  here  last 
fall  were  due  directly  to  the  water  supply,  and  Mr.  Hendricks  is  going 
to  make  the  fight  of  his  life  to  have  the  city  buy  the  waterworks 
plant,  and  move  the  intake  six  miles  above  town,  where  there  is  plenty 
of  clean  water.  Of  course  it  will  mean  first  a  city  election  to  get 
decent  councilmen,  and  then  a  bond  election  to  vote  money  to  buy  the 
old  plant ;  the  waterworks  company  are  going  to  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  get  an  anti-Hendricks  council  elected  and  to  renew  the  fran 
chise  and  let  things  go  as  they  are.  So  that  is  why  I  am  here,  dear 
heart,  and  oh,  my  darling,  you  do  not  know  how  painful  it  all  seems  to 
be  here  and  not  have  you  —  I  mean — you  know  what  I  mean.  All 
my  associations  with  the  work  here  in  the  office  and  on  the  street  are 
with  my  heart  close  to  yours.  Everything  in  the  old  town  tells  me 
of  you.  *  Saint  Andrews  by  the  Northern  sea,  a  haunted  city  is  to  me.' 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  361 

To-night  I  hear  the  music  of  the  New  Year's  dance,  and  I  can  shut  my 
eyes  and  feel  you  with  me  there.  Oh,  sweetheart,  I  have  kept  you  so 
close,  by  writing  to  you  every  night.  I  come  and  lay  my  heart  and  all 
its  thoughts  at  your  shrine,  and  put  all  my  day's  work  before  you  for 
your  approval,  just  as  I  used  to  do.  It  is  so  sweet  a  privilege. 

"  Last  night  I  dreamed  about  you.  It  was  so  real  and  your  voice 
sounded  so  clearly,  crying  to  me,  that  you  have  been  with  me  all  day. 
I  wonder  if  while  we  sleep,  we  whose  souls  would  struggle  to  meet 
through  eternity,  if  through  the  walls  of  space  they  may  not  find 
each  other,  and  speak  to  each  other  through  our  dreams.  It  is  mid 
night  here  now,  and  you  are  just  waking,  perhaps,  or  just  sleeping 
that  sleep  of  early  morning  wherein  the  soul  sinks  to  unknown  depths. 
Oh  —  oh  —  oh,  if  I  could  but  speak  to  you  there,  my  dear!  I  am 
going  to  sit  here  and  close  my  eyes  and  try." 

The  next  letter  in  the  exhibit  was  written  six  weeks  later 
and  is  dated  February  12,  1904.  It  says  in  part :  — 

"I  must  tell  you  what  a  bully  fellow  Bob  Hendricks  is.  Judge 
Bemis  sent  a  highly  laudatory  article  about  himself  to  the  office  to 
day  with  a  check  for  fifty  dollars.  In  the  article  it  develops  that  he 
is  going  to  retire  from  the  federal  bench  and  come  down  here  and 
buy  the  waterworks  plant  —  on  the  theory  that  he  will  get  a  bargain 
because  of  the  expiring  franchise  and  the  prospective  fight.  That 
fifty  dollars  looked  as  big  as  a  barn  to  poor  Adrian,  so  he  trotted  off 
with  the  letter  and  the  check  to  Hendricks.  Of  course,  the  letter  and 
the  check  together,  just  framed  and  put  in  the  bank  window,  would 
make  great  sport  of  the  judge ;  but  Bob  is  a  thoroughbred,  and  prob 
ably  Bemis  knows  it,  and  figures  on  that  in  his  dealings  with  him. 
I  was  in  the  bank  when  Adrian  came  in  with  the  letter.  He  showed 
the  check  and  the  article  to  Hendricks,  and  you  could  almost  see 
Adrian  wag  his  tail  and  hear  him  whine  to  keep  the  check;  Bob 
looked  at  the  poor  fellow's  wistful  eyes  and  handed  it  back  with  a 
quizzical  little  smile  and  said,  *  Oh,  I  guess  I'd  run  it ;  it  can't  hurt 
anything.'  The  light  that  came  into  Adrian's  eyes  was  positively 
beatific,  and  he  shook  Bob  by  the  hand,  and  twirled  his  cane,  and 
waved  his  gloves  in  a  sort  of  canine  ecstasy,  and  trotted  to  the 
cashier's  window  with  the  check  like  a  dog  with  a  bone.  It  is  the  largest 
piece  of  real  money  he  has  had  in  six  months,  the  boys  say,  and  he 
has  spent  it  for  clothes.  To-morrow  he  will  hurry  off  to  the  first  con 
vention  in  the  city  like  a  comet  two  centuries  behind  time.  But  that 
is  beside  the  point ;  the  thing  I  don't  like  is  the  coming  of  Bemis.  I 
know  him ;  the  things  I  have  seen  him  do  in  your  father's  busmess  and 
when  he  was  on  the  bench,  make  me  shudder  for  decent  politics  in  this 
town.  He  is  shrewd,  unscrupulous,  and  without  any  restraint  on  earth. 

"I  feel  closer  to  you  than  I  have  felt  since  I  put  the  barrier  be 
tween  us.  For  you  'are  in  this  country  to-night — I  could  go  to  the 
telephone  there  five  feet  away  and  reach  you  if  I  would.  I  looked 


362  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

to-day  in  the  papers  and  saw  that  they  would  be  giving  Lohengrin  at 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  and  knowing  your  father  as  I  do,  I 
think  he  will  take  you  there.  I  can  hear  the  music  rising  and  see 
you  drinking  in  the  harmony,  and  as  it  swells  into  exquisite  pain,  and 
thrills  through  the  holy  places  of  your  soul  where  are  old  memories 
of  our  love,  sweetheart,  maybe  your  spirit  will  go  forth  in  God's 
strange  universe  where  we  all  dwell  neighbours,  loosed  from  those 
material  chains  that  bind  our  bodies,  and  will  seek  the  heart  that  is 
searching  for  you  out  there  in  the  highway  of  heaven.  I  seem  to  feel 
you  now,  dear  soul  —  did  the  music  fling  your  spirit  free  for  a  second 
till  it  touched  my  own?  I  am  so  happy,  Jeanette  —  even  to  love  you 
and  to  know  that  you  have  loved  me,  and  must  always  love  me  while 
you  are  you  and  I  am  I." 

And  now  let  us  consider  the  final  exhibit.  It  will  be 
necessary  to  turn  back  the  action  of  this  story  a  month 
and  a  half  and  sit  with  John  Barclay  and  his  friend, 
former  federal  judge  Elijah  Westlake  Bemis,  before  the 
fire  in  the  wide  fireplace  in  the  Barclay  home,  one  cold 
January  night,  a  week  after  Barclay  had  gone  free  from 
the  court  and  the  world  had  hissed  him.  They  were 
talking  of  the  judge's  business  future,  and  the  judge  was 
saying:  — 

"  John,  how  did  Bob  Hendricks  ever  straighten  out  that 
affair  in  the  treasurer's  office  in  connection  with  the  first 
year's  taxes  of  the  old  Wheat  Company  ?  What  did  he 
do  with  it  finally  ?  " 

Barclay  looked  at  the  fire  and  then  turned  his  search 
light  eyes  into  Bemis's.  There  was  not  a  quiver.  The 
man  sat  there  without  a  muscle  of  his  parchment  face 
moving.  His  eyes  were  squinted  up,  looking  at  the  tip 
of  his  long  cigar. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Barclay. 

"Well,"  responded  Bemis,  impassive  as  an  ox,  uit 
would  help  me  in  my  business  to  know.  Tell  me." 

He  spoke  the  last  two  words  as  one  in  authority. 

"  Well,"  answered  Barclay,  "  one  day  back  in  the 
seventies,  I  was  appointed  to  check  up  the  treasurer's 
book,  and  I  found  where  he  had  fixed  it  on  the  county 
books  —  apparently  between  two  administrations.  I  rec 
ognized  his  hand;  and  it  made  the  balance  for  the  first 
time." 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  363 

Bemis  smoked  awhile.  "  What  time  in  the  seventies  ?  w 
he  asked. 

There  was  a  pause.     "  In  January,  1879." 

Bemis  grinned  a  wicked,  mean  little  grin  and  said  : 
"  That  settles  it.  I  believe  I  am  safe  in  buying  the  water 
works." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to  Bob  ?  "  Barclay  asked. 

"  Nothing,  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing,  if  he  has  any 
sense  and  drops  this  municipal  ownership  tommyrot. 
Absolutely  nothing." 

Again  the  grin  came  over  his  face,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
pause  Barclay  said  :  — 

"  Well,  if  not,  what  then  ?  " 

Bemis  shut  his  eyes  and  crossed  his  gaunt  legs,  and 
began :  "  Think  back  twenty  years  ago  —  more  or  less. 
Do  you  remember  when  I  brought  your  car  down  here 
for  Watts  McHurdie  and  his  crowd  to  go  to  Washington 
in,  to  the  G.A.R.  celebration?  All  right;  do  you  re 
member  that  I  came  to  the  office  and  told  you  I  saw  Bob 
Hendricks  waiting  for  some  one  at  the  Union  Station, 
when  the  train  got  into  the  city  that  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Barclay,  "  you  were  so  mysterious  and 
funny  about  it,  I  remember." 

"  Well,"  said  Bemis,  as  he  got  up  and  poked  a  log  that 
was  annoying  him  in  the  fireplace,  "  well,  I  have  a  little 
document  in  my  desk  at  home,  that  I  got  the  night  before 
in  the  Ridge,  which  will  convince  Bobbie,  if  he  has  any 
sense,  that  this  municipal  ownership  business  isn't  all  it's 
cracked  up  to  be." 

Barclay,  who  knew  from  Jane  something  of  the  truth, 
guessed  the  rest,  but  he  did  not  question  Bemis  further. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Lige,"  he  began ;  "  it  seems  to  me  I 
wouldn't  drag  that  into  it." 

Bemis  turned  his  old  face,  full  of  malicious  passion, 
toward  Barclay  and  cried,  "  Maybe  you  wouldn't,  John 
Barclay  —  you  forget  things ;  but  I  never  do ;  and  you're 
a  coward  sometimes,  and  I  am  not." 

The  blaze  of  his  wrath  went  out  in  a  moment,  and  Bar 
clay's  mind  went  back  to  that  afternoon  in  the  seventies 


364  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

when  Hendricks  picked  Bemis  up  and  threw  him  bodily 
from  the  county  convention  and  branded  him  as  a  boodler. 
Barclay  knew  argument  was  useless.  So  he  said  nothing. 

"  He  has  the  county  officers  —  every  man-jack  of  them 
from  the  treasurer  to  Jake  Dolan,  the  janitor  —  and  I 
couldn't  get  hold  of  that  book  by  fair  means  without  his 
knowing  it.  But  I  am  going  to  have  that  book,  John  — 
I'm  going  to  have  that  book." 

Barclay  followed  Bemis's  mental  processes,  as  if  they 
were  his  own.  "  Well  —  what  if  he  does  know  it?  "  asked 
Barclay. 

"  Oh,  if  he  knew  I  was  after  the  book,  he'd  fix  me,  — 
have  it  destroyed  or  something ;  he  could  do  lots  of  things 
or  beat  me  some  way.  I've  got  to  get  that  book  — get  it 
out  of  the  court-house  —  and  there's  just  one  way  to  get 
into  the  court-house,  without  using  the  doors  and  the 
windows."  When  Bemis  had  finished  speaking,  he  gazed 
steadily  into  Barclay's  eyes.  And  Bemis  saw  the  fear 
that  was  in  Barclay's  face.  "  Yes,  I  know  a  way  into  the 
court-house,  John  —  it's  mine  by  fifty  years'  right  of  dis 
covery.  I'm  going  to  have  that  book,  and  get  an  expert 
opinion  as  to  the  similarity  of  the  handwriting  in  the 
book  and  the  handwriting  of  my  own  little  document. 
My  own  little  document,"  he  mused,  licking  his  chops  like 
a  hound  at  the  prospect. 

Now  we  will  call  that  little  document  "Exhibit  I"  in 
the  case  of  the  Larger  Good  vs.  The  People,  and  close 
thereby  a  long  and  tedious  chapter.  But  we  will  begin 
another  chapter  in  which  the  wheels  of  events  spin  rapidly 
in  their  courses  toward  that  moral  equilibrium  that  deeds 
must  find  before  they  stop  when  they  are  started  for  the 
Larger  Good. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  spring  of  1904  in  Sycamore  Ridge  opened  in  tur 
moil.  The  turmoil  came  from  the  contest  over  the  pur 
chase  of  the  town's  water  system.  Robert  Hendricks  as 
president  of  the  Citizens'  League  was  leading  the  forces 
that  advocated  the  purchase  of  the  system  by  the  town, 
as  being  the  only  sure  way  to  change  the  water  supply 
from  the  polluted  mill-pond  to  a  clean  source.  Six  months 
before  he  had  leased  every  bill-board  in  town,  and  for  the 
two  months  preceding  the  city  election  that  was  to  decide 
the  question  of  municipal  purchase  he  had  hired  every 
available  hall  in  town,  for  every  vacant  night  during  those 
months,  and  had  bought  half  of  the  first  page  of  both  the 
Banner  and  the  Index  for  those  months — and  all  of  this 
long  before  the  town  knew  the  fight  was  coming.  He 
covered  the  bill-boards  and  the  first  pages  of  the  news 
papers  with  analyses  of  the  water  in  the  mill-pond — badly 
infected  from  the  outlet  of  the  town  sewers  and  its  sur 
face  drainage.  The  Citizens'  League  filled  the  halls  with 
speakers  demanding  the  purchase  of  the  plant  and  the  re 
moval  of  the  pumping  station  to  a  place  several  miles 
above  the  town,  and  four  beyond  the  mill-pond.  Judge 
Bemis,  with  the  aid  and  abetment  of  John  Barclay, 
who  was  in  the  game  to  help  his  old  friend,  put  up  ban 
ners  denouncing  Hendricks  as  a  socialist,  accusing  him  of 
being  the  town  boss,  and  charged  through  the  columns  of 
the  Index  that  Hendricks'  real  motive  in  desiring  to  have 
the  city  take  over  the  waterworks  system  was  to  make 
money  on  the  sale  of  the  city's  bonds.  So  Hendricks 
was  the  centre  of  the  fight. 

In  the  first  engagement,  a  malicious  contest,  Hendricks 
lost.  The  town  refused  to  vote  the  bonds  to  buy  the 
plant.  But  at  the  same  election  the  same  people  elected 

365 


366  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

a  city  council  overwhelmingly  in  favour  of  municipal  own- 
ership  and  in  favour  of  compelling  the  operating  company 
to  move  its  plant  from  the  mill-pond.  The  morning  after 
the  election  Hendricks  began  a  lawsuit  as  a  taxpayer 
and  citizen  to  make  the  waterworks  company  move  its 
plant.  The  town  could  understand  that  issue,  and  senti 
ment  rallied  to  Hendricks  again.  Judge  Bemis,  at  the 
head  of  the  company,  although  irritated,  was  not  alarmed. 
For  in  the  courts  he  could  promote  delays,  plead  techni 
calities,  and  wear  out  his  adversary.  It  was  an  old  game 
with  him.  Still,  the  suit  disturbed  the  value  of  his  bonds, 
and  having  other  resources,  he  gleefully  decided  to  use 
them. 

And  thus  it  fell  out  that  one  fine  day  in  April,  Trixie  Lee, 
from  the  bedraggled  outer  hem  of  the  social  garment  down 
by  the  banks  of  the  Sycamore,  called  to  the  telephone 
Robert  Hendricks  of  the  town's  purple  and  fine  linen,  who 
dwelt  on  the  hill.  He  did  not  recognize  her  voice,  the 
first  time  she  called.  But  shrewd  as  Judge  Bemis  was, 
and  bad  as  he  was,  he  did  not  know  it  all.  He  did  not 
know  that  when  Hendricks  had  received  the  first  anony 
mous  letter  three  days  before,  he  had  instructed  the  girls  in 
the  telephone  office,  which  he  controlled,  to  make  a  record 
of  every  telephone  call  for  his  office  or  his  house,  and  when 
the  woman's  voice  on  the  telephone  that  day  delivered 
Judge  Bemis's  message,  the  moment  after  she  quit  talking 
he  knew  with  whom  he  had  been  talking. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Hendricks  ?  "  the  voice  had  begun,  rather 
pleasantly.  Yes,  it  was  Mr.  Hendricks.  "  Well,  I  am 
your  friend,  but  I  don't  dare  to  let  you  know  my  name 
now;  it  would  be  all  my  life  is  worth."  And  Robert 
Hendricks  grinned  pleasantly  into  the  rubber  transmitter 
as  he  realized  that  his  trap  would  work.  "  Yes,  Mr. 
Hendricks,  I  am  your  friend,  and  you  have  a  powerful 
enemy."  What  with  the  insinuations  in  the  Index  and 
the  venom  that  Lige  Bemis  had  been  putting  into  anony 
mous  circulars  during  the  preliminary  waterworks  cam 
paign,  this  was  no  news  to  Mr.  Hendricks ;  so  he  let  the 
voice  go  on,  "They  want  you  to  dismiss  that  suit  against 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  367 

the  waterworks  company  that  you  brought  last  week." 
There  was  a  pause  for  a  reply ;  but  none  came  ;  then  the 
voice  said,  "Are  you  there,  Mr.  Hendricks — do  you  hear 
me  ?  "  And  Mr.  Hendricks  said  that  he  heard  perfectly. 
"And,"  went  on  the  voice,  "  as  your  friend  I  wish  you 
would,  too.  Do  you  remember  a  letter  you  once  wrote  to 
a  woman,  asking  her  to  elope  with  you  —  a  married  woman, 
Mr.  Hendricks  ? "  There  was  a  pause  for  a  reply,  and 
again  the  voice  asked,  "  Do  you  hear,  Mr.  Hendricks  ?  " 
and  Mr.  Hendricks  heard ;  heard,  in  his  soul  and  was  afraid, 
but  his  voice  did  not  quaver  as  he  replied,  "  Yes,  I  hear 
perfectly."  Then  the  voice  went  on,  "Well,  they  hava 
that  letter  —  a  little  note  — not  over  one  hundred  words, 
and  with  no  date  on  it,  and  the  man  who  has  it  also  has  a 
photograph  of  page  234  of  a  certain  ledger  in  the  county 
treasurer's  office  for  1879,  and  there  is  an  entry  there  in 
your  handwriting,  Mr.  Hendricks  ;  and  he  has  had  them 
both  enlarged  to  show  that  the  handwriting  of  the  note 
and  of  the  county  book  are  the  same  ;  isn't  that  mean,  Mr. 
Hendricks  ?  "  Hendricks  coughed  into  the  transmitter, 
and  she  knew  that  he  was  there,  so  she  continued :  "  As 
your  friend  in  this  matter,  I  have  got  them  to  promise 
that  if  you  will  come  to  the  Citizens'  League  meeting  that 
you  have  called  for  to-morrow  night  at  Barclay  Hall  and 
tell  the  people  that  you  think  we  need  harmony  in  the 
Ridge  worse  than  we  need  this  everlasting  row,  if  you  will 
merely  say  to  Mr.  Barclay  as  you  pass  into  the  meeting, 
6  Well,  John,  I  believe  I'll  dismiss  that  suit,'  you  can  have 
your  letter  back.  He  hasn't  got  the  letter,  but  he  will  be 
sure  to  tell  the  news  to  a  friend  who  has."  Here  the 
voice  faltered,  and  said  unconsciously,  "  Wait  a  minute, 
I've  lost  my  place  ;  oh,  here  it  is ;  all  right.  And  if  you 
don't  come  to  the  meeting  and  say  that,  I  believe  they 
are  going  to  spring  those  documents  on  the  meeting  to 
put  you  in  bad  odour." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Hendricks. 

"  Well  —  "a  pause  and  then  finally  —  "  yes,"  came  the 
voice. 

"  Well,  my  answer  is  no,"  said  Hendricks,  and  while  he 


368  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

was  trying  to  get  central  the  voice  called  again  and 
said :  — 

44  Just  one  word  more :  if  you  still  maintain  youi 
present  decision,  a  copy  of  that  letter  you  wrote  will  be 
put  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Brownwell  of  the  Banner  before 
the  meeting;  I  tell  you  this  to  protect  you.  He  and  Mis. 
Brownwell  and  Mrs.  Barclay  will  be  in  town  to-morrow 
evening  on  the  Barclay  car  from  the  West  on  No.  6;  you 
will  have  until  then  to  reconsider  your  decision;  after 
that  you  act  at  your  own  risk." 

Again  the  voice  ceased,  and  Hendricks  learned  from 
central  who  had  been  talking  with  him.  It  was  after 
banking  hours,  and  he  sat  for  a  time  looking  the  situation 
squarely  in  the  face.  The  reckoning  had  come.  He 
had  answered  "  no "  with  much  bravery  over  the  tele 
phone  —  but  in  his  heart  a  question  began  to  rise,  and  his 
decision  was  clouded. 

Hendricks  walked  alone  under  the  stars  that  night,  and  as 
he  walked  he  turned  the  situation  over  and  over  as  one  who 
examines  a  strange  puzzle.  He  saw  that  his  "  no  "  could 
not  be  his  own  uno."  Molly  must  be  partner  in  it.  For 
to  continue  his  fight  for  clean  water  he  must  risk  her  good 
name.  He  measured  Bemis,  and  remembered  the  old 
quarrel.  The  hate  in  the  face  of  the  bribe-giver,  thrown 
out  of  the  county  convention  a  quarter  of  a  century  before, 
came  to  Hendricks,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  no  vain 
threat  he  was  facing.  So  he  turned  up  the  other  facet 
of  the  puzzle.  There  was  Adrian.  For  an  hour  he  con 
sidered  Adrian  Brownwell,  a  vain  jealous  old  man  with  the 
temper  of  a  beast.  To  see  Molly,  tell  her  of  their  common 
peril,  get  her  decision,  and  be  with  it  at  the  meeting  before 
Adrian  saw  the  note,  all  in  the  two  hours  between  the  arrival 
of  the  train  bearing  the  Brownwells  and  Mrs.  Barclay,  and 
the  time  of  the  meeting  in  Barclay  Hall,  was  part  of  Hen 
dricks'  puzzle.  He  believed  that  by  using  the  telephone 
to  make  an  appointment  he  could  manage  it.  Then  he 
turned  the  puzzle  over  and  saw  that  to  save  Molly  Brown- 
well's  good  name  and  his  father's,  human  lives  must  be 
sacrificed  by  permitting  the  use  of  foul  water  in  the  town. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  369 

And  in  the  end  his  mind  set.  He  knew  that  unless  she 
forbade  it,  the  contest  must  go  on  to  a  righteous  finish, 
through  whatever  perils,  over  any  obstacles.  Yet  as  he 
walked  back  to  the  bank,  determined  not  to  take  his  hand 
from  the  plough,  he  saw  that  he  must  prepare  to  go  into  the 
next  day  as  though  it  were  his  last.  For  in  his  conscious 
ness  on  the  other  side  of  the  puzzle  —  always  there  was 
the  foolish  Adrian,  impetuous  at  best,  but  stark  mad  in  his 
jealousy  and  wrath. 

And  Elijah  Westlake  Bemis,  keeping  account  of  the 
man's  movements,  chuckled  as  he  felt  the  struggle  in  the 
man's  breast.  For  he  was  a  wise  old  snake,  that  Lige 
Bemis,  and  he  had  seduced  many  another  man  after  the 
brave  impulsive  "  no  "  had  roared  in  his  face.  Just  before 
midnight  when  he  saw  the  electric  light  flash  on  in  the 
private  office  of  the  president  of  the  Exchange  National 
Bank,  Lige  Bemis,  libertine  with  men,  strolled  home  and 
counted  the  battle  won.  "  He's  writing  his  speech,"  he 
said  to  Barclay  over  the  telephone  at  midnight.  And 
John  Barclay,  who  had  fought  the  local  contest  in  the 
election  with  Bemis  to  be  loyal  to  a  friend,  and  to  help 
one  who  was  in  danger  of  losing  the  profit  on  half  a  mill 
ion  dollars'  investment  in  the  Sycamore  Ridge  water 
works,  laughed  as  he  walked  upstairs  in  his  pajamas,  and 
said  to  himself,  "  Old  Lige  is  a  great  one  —  there  is  a  lot 
of  fight  in  the  old  viper  yet."  It  was  nothing  to  Barclay 
that  the  town  got  its  water  from  a  polluted  pond.  That 
phase  of  the  case  did  not  enter  his  consciousness,  though 
it  was  placarded  on  the  bill-boards  and  had  been  printed 
in  the  Banner  a  thousand  times  during  the  campaign. 
To  him  it  was  a  fight  by  the  demagogues  against  property 
interests,  and  he  was  with  property,  even  a  little  prop 
erty —  even  a  miserable  little  dribble  of  property  like 
half  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  waterworks  bonds. 

And  Robert  Hendricks  —  playfellow  of  John  Barclay's 
boyhood,  partner  of  his  youth  —  sat  working  throughout 
the  night,  a  brave  man,  going  into  battle  without  a  tremor. 
He  went  through  his  books,  made  out  statements  of 
his  business  relations,  prepared  directions  for  the  heads 
2n 


370  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

of  his  different  concerns,  as  a  man  would  do  who  might 
be  going  on  a  long  journey.  For  above  everything, 
Robert  Hendricks  was  foresighted.  He  prepared  for 
emergencies  first,  and  tried  to  avoid  them  afterwards. 
And  with  the  thought  of  the  smallness  of  this  life  in  his 
soul,  he  looked  up  from  his  work  to  see  the  hard  gray 
lines  of  the  dawn  in  the  street  outside  of  his  office,  bring 
ing  the  ugly  details  from  the  shadows  that  hid  them  dur 
ing  the  day,  and  he  sighed  as  he  wondered  in  what  bourne 
he  should  see  the  next  dawn  break. 

It  was"  a  busy  day  for  Robert  Hendricks,  that  next  day, 
and  through  it  all  his  mind  was  planning  every  moment 
of  the  time  how  he  could  protect  Molly  Brownwell.  Did 
he  work  in  the  bank,  behind  his  work  his  mind  was  seek 
ing  some  outlet  from  his  prison.  If  he  went  over  the 
power-house  at  the  electric  plant,  always  he  was  looking 
among  the  wheels  for  some  way  of  refuge  for  Molly. 
When  he  spent  an  hour  in  the  office  of  the  wholesale 
grocery  house,  he  despatched  a  day's  work,  but  never  for 
a  second  was  his  problem  out  of  his  head.  He  spent  two 
hours  with  his  lawyers  planning  the  suit  against  the 
water  company,  pointing  out  new  sources  of  evidence,  and 
incidentally  leaving  a  large  check  to  pay  for  the  work. 
But  through  it  all  Molly  Brown  well's  good  name  was  ever 
before  him,  and  when  he  thought  how  twenty  years  be 
fore  he  had  walked  through  another  day  planning,  schem 
ing,  and  contriving,  all  to  produce  the  climax  of  calamity 
that  was  hovering  over  her  to-day,  he  was  sick  and  faint 
with  horror  and  self-loathing. 

But  as  the  day  drew  to  its  noon,  Hendricks  began  to 
feel  a  persistent  detachment  from  the  world  about  him. 
It  floated  across  his  consciousness,  like  the  shadow  anchor 
of  some  cloud  far  above  him.  He  began  to  watch  the 
world  go  by.  He  seemed  not  to  be  a  part  of  it.  He 
became  a  spectator.  At  four  o'clock  he  passed  Dolan  on 
the  street  and  said,  absently,  "  I  want  you  to-night  at 
the  bank  at  seven  o'clock  sharp  —  don't  forget,  it's  very 
important." 

As   he   walked   down   Main   Street   to   the   bank,  the 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  371 

shadow  anchor  of  the  cloud  had  ceased  to  flit  across  hia 
consciousness.  Life  had  grown  all  gray  and  dull,  and  he 
was  apart  from  the  world.  He  saw  the  handbills  an 
nouncing  the  meeting  that  night  as  one  who  sees  a  curious 
passing  show;  the  men  he  met  on  the  street  he  greeted  as 
creatures  from  another  world.  Yet  he  knew  he  smiled 
and  spoke  with  them  casually.  But  it  was  not  he  who 
spoke;  the  real  Robert  Hendricks  he  knew  was  separated 
from  the  pantomime  about  him.  When  he  went  into  the 
bank  at  five  o'clock,  the  janitor  was  finishing  his  work. 
Hendricks  called  up  the  depot  on  the  telephone  and  found 
that  No.  6  was  an  hour  late.  With  the  realization  that 
a  full  hour  of  his  fighting  time  had  been  taken  from 
him  and  that  the  train  would  arrive  only  a  scant  hour 
before  the  meeting,  the  Adrian  face  of  his  puzzle  turned 
insistently  toward  Hendricks.  It  was  not  fear  but  de 
spair  that  seized  him.  The  cloud  was  over  him.  And  for 
want  of  something  to  do  he  wrote.  First  he  wrote  ab 
stractedly  and  mechanically  to  John  Barclay,  then  to  Neal 
Ward  —  a  note  for  the  Banner — and  as  the  twilight  deep 
ened  in  the  room,  he  squared  his  chair  to  the  table  and 
wrote  to  Molly  Brownwell ;  that  letter  was  the  voice  of 
his  soul.  That  was  real.  Six  o'clock  struck.  Half-past 
six  clanged  on  the  town  clock,  and  as  Jake  Dolan  opened 
the  bank  door,  Hendricks  heard  the  roar  of  the  train  cross 
ing  at  the  end  of  Main  Street. 

"There  goes  Johnnie's  private  car,  switching  on  the 
tail  of  her,"  said  Dolan,  standing  in  the  doorway. 

Hendricks  sent  Dolan  to  a  back  room  of  the  bank,  and 
at  seven-twenty  went  to  the  telephone.  "  Give  me  876, 
central,"  he  called.  "  Hello  —  hello  —  hello,"  he  cried 
nervously,  "  hello  —  who  is  this  ?  "  The  answer  came 
and  he  said,  "  Oh,  I  didn't  recognize  your  voice."  Then 
he  asked  in  a  low  tone,  as  one  who  had  fear  in  his  heart : 
"  Do  you  recognize  me  ?  If  you  do,  don't  speak  my  name. 
Where  is  Adrian?"  Then  Mr.  Dolan,  listening  in  the 
next  room,  heard  this  :  "  You  say  Judge  Bemis  phoned  to 
him  ?  Oh,  he  was  to  meet  him  at  eight  o'clock.  How  long 
ago  did  he  leave  ?  "  After  a  moment  Hendricks'  answer 


372  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

was :  "  Then  he  has  just  gone ;  and  will  not  be  back  ?  * 
Hendricks  cut  impatiently  into  whatever  answer  came 
with:  "Molly,  I  must  see  you  within  the  next  fifteen 
minutes.  I  can't  talk  any  more  over  the  telephone,  but 
I  must  come  up."  "Yes,"  in  a  moment,  "I  must  have 
your  decision  in  a  matter  of  great  importance  to  you  — 
to  you,  Molly."  There  was  a  short  silence,  then  Dolan 
heard:  "All  right,  I'll  be  there  in  ten  minutes."  Then 
Hendricks  turned  from  the  telephone  and  called  Dolan  in. 
He  unlocked  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  and  began  speaking  to 
Dolan,  who  stood  over  him.  Hendricks'  voice  was  low, 
and  he  was  repressing  the  agitation  in  his  heart  by  main 
strength. 

"  Jake,"  he  said,  talking  as  rapidly  as  he  could,  "  I  must 
be  ungodly  frank  with  you.  It  doesn't  make  any  differ 
ence  whether  he  is  right  or  not,  but  Adrian  Brownwell 
may  be  fooled  into  thinking  he  has  reason  to  be  jealous  of 
me."  Hendricks  was  biting  his  mustache.  "  He's  a  rag 
ing  maniac  of  jealousy,  Jake,  but  I'm  not  afraid  of  him  — 
not  for  myself.  I  can  get  him  before  he  gets  me,  if  it 
comes  to  that,  but  to  do  it  I'll  have  to  sacrifice  Molly. 
And  I  won't  do  that.  If  it  comes  to  her  good  name  or 
my  life  —  she  can  have  my  life."  They  were  outside  now 
and  Dolan  was  unhitching  the  horse.  He  knew  instinc 
tively  that  he  was  not  to  reply.  In  a  moment  Hen 
dricks  went  on,  "Well,  there  is  just  one  chance  in  a 
hundred  that  it  may  turn  that  way  —  her  good  name  or 
my  life  —  and  on  that  chance  I've  written  some  letters 
here."  He  reached  in  his  coat  and  said,  "  Now,  Jake, 
put  these  letters  in  your  pocket  and  if  anything  goes 
wrong  with  me,  deliver  them  to  the  persons  whose  names 
are  on  the  envelopes  —  and  to  no  one  else.  I  must  trust 
everything  to  you,  Jake,"  he  said. 

Driving  up  the  hill,  he  met  Bemis  coming  down  town. 
He  passed  people  going  to  the  meeting  in  Barclay  Hall. 
He  did  not  greet  them,  but  drove  on.  His  jaw  was  set 
hard,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  were  firm.  As  heneared 
the  Culpepper  home  he  climbed  from  the  buggy  and 
hitched  the  horse  to  the  block  in  front  of  his  own  house. 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  373 

He  hurried  into  the  Culpepper  yard,  past  the  lilac  bushes 
heavy  with  blooms,  and  up  the  broad  stone  steps  with  the 
white  pillars  looming  above  him.  It  was  a  quarter  to 
eight,  and  at  that  minute  Bemis  was  saying  to  Adrian 
Brownwell,  "  All  right,  if  you  don't  believe  it,  don't 
take  my  word  for  it,  but  go  home  right  now  and  see  what 
you  find." 

Molly  Brownwell  met  Hendricks  on  the  threshold 
with  trembling  steps.  "Bob,  what  is  it?"  she  asked. 
They  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  white  pillars,  where 
they  had  parted  a  generation  ago. 

"  It's  this,  Molly,"  answered  Hendricks,  as  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  that  was  throbbing  with  pain  ; 
44  Lige  Bemis  has  my  letter  to  you.  Yes,"  he  cried  as  she 
gasped,  "the  note — the  very  note,  and  to  get  it  I  must 
quit  the  waterworks  fight  and  go  to  the  meeting  to-night 
and  surrender.  I  had  no  right  to  decide  that  alone.  It 
is  our  question,  Molly.  We  are  bound  by  the  old  life  — 
and  we  must  take  this  last  stand  together." 

The  woman  shrank  from  Hendricks  with  horror  on  her 
face,  as  he  personified  her  danger.  She  could  not  reply 
at  once,  but  stood  staring  at  him  in  the  dusk.  As  she 
stared,  the  feeling  that  she  had  seen  it  all  before  in  a 
dream  came  over  her,  and  the  premonition  that  some 
awful  thing  was  impending  shook  her  to  the  marrow. 

"Molly,  we  have  no  time  to  spare,"  he  urged.  "I 
must  answer  Bemis  in  ten  minutes  —  I  can  do  it  by  phone. 
But  say  what  you  think." 

"  Why  —  why  —  why  —  Bob  —  let  me  think,"  she  whis 
pered,  as  one  trying  to  speak  in  a  dream,  and  that  also 
seemed  familiar  to  her.  "  It's  typhoid  for  my  poor  who 
died  like  sheep  last  year,"  she  cried,  "or  my  good  name 
and  yours,  is  it,  Bob?  Is  it,  Bob  ?"  she  repeated. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  again  in  the  old  way 
she  remembered  so  well  —  to  temples  that  were  covered 
with  thin  gray  hair  —  and  answered,  "Yes,  Molly,  that's 
our  price." 

Those  were  the  last  words  that  she  seemed  to  have  heard 
before;  after  that  the  dialogue  was  all  new  to  her.  She  waa 


374  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

silent  a  few  agonized  seconds  and  then  said,  "  I  know  what 
you  think,  Bob ;  you  are  for  my  poor ;  you  are  brave." 
He  did  not  answer,  fearing  to  turn  the  balance.  As  she 
sank  into  a  porch  chair  a  rustling  breeze  moved  the  lilac 
plumes  and  brought  their  perfume  to  her.  From  down 
the  avenue  came  the  whir  of  wheels  and  the  hurrying  click 
of  a  horse's  hoofs.  At  length  she  rose,  and  said  tremu 
lously  :  "  I  stand  with  you,  Bob.  May  God  make  the 
blow  as  light  as  He  can." 

They  did  not  notice  that  a  buggy  had  drawn  up  on  the 
asphalt  in  front  of  the  house.  Hendricks  put  out  his 
hand  and  cried,  "  Oh,  Molly  —  Molly  —  Molly  —  "  and 
she  took  it  in  both  of  hers  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and 
as  Adrian  Brownwell  passed  the  lilac  thicket  in  the  gather 
ing  darkness  that  is  what  he  saw.  Hendricks  was  halfway 
down  the  veranda  steps  before  he  was  aware  that  Brown- 
well  was  running  up  the  walk  at  them,  pistol  in  hand,  like 
one  mad.  Before  the  man  could  fire,  Hendricks  was  upon 
him,  and  had  Brownwell's  two  hands  gripped  tightly  in 
one  of  his,  holding  them  high  in  the  air.  The  little  man 
struggled. 

"Don't  scream — for  God's  sake,  don't  scream,"  cried 
Hendricks  to  the  woman  in  a  suppressed  voice.  Then  he 
commanded  her  harshly,  "Go  in  the  house — quick  — 
Molly  —  quick." 

She  ran  as  though  hypnotized  by  the  force  of  the  sug 
gestion.  Hendricks  had  his  free  hand  over  Brownwell's 
mouth  and  around  his  neck.  The  little  old  man  was  kick 
ing  and  wriggling,  but  Hendricks  held  him.  "Not  here, 
you  fool,  not  here.  Can't  you  see  it  would  ruin  her,  you 
fool?  Not  here."  He  carried  and  dragged  Brownwell 
across  the  grass  through  the  shrubbery  and  into  the 
Hendricks  yard.  No  one  was  passing,  and  the  night  had 
fallen.  "  Now,"  said  Hendricks,  as  he  backed  against  a 
pine  tree,  still  holding  Brownwell,  "I  shall  let  you  go  if 
you'll  promise  to  listen  to  me  just  a  minute  until  I  tell 
you  the  whole  truth.  Molly  is  innocent,  man  —  absolutely 
innocent,  and  I'll  show  you  if  you'll  talk  for  a  moment. 
Will  you  promise,  man  ?  " 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  375 

Brownwell  nodded  his  assent ;  Hendricks  looked  at  him 
steadily  for  a  second  and  then  said,  "  All  right,"  and  set 
the  little  man  on  his  feet.  The  glare  of  madness  came 
into  Brownwell's  eyes,  and  as  he  turned  he  came  at  Hen 
dricks  with  his  pistol  drawn.  An  instant  later  there  was 
a  shot.  Brownwell  saw  the  amazement  flash  into  Hen 
dricks'  eyes,  and  then  Hendricks  sank  gently  to  the  foot 
of  the  pine  tree. 

And  Molly  Brownwell,  with  the  paralysis  of  terror  still 
upon  her,  heard  the  shot  and  then  heard  footsteps  running 
across  the  grass.  A  moment  later  her  husband,  empty- 
handed,  chattering,  shivering,  and  white,  stumbled  into  the 
room.  Rage  had  been  conquered  by  fear.  For  an 
agonized  second  the  man  and  woman  stared  at  one  another, 
speechless  —  then  the  wife  cried  :  — 

"Oh  —  oh  —  why  —  why  —  Adrian,"  and  her  voice  was 
thick  with  fear.  — 

The  man  was  a-tremble — hands,  limbs,  body  —  and  his 
mad  eyes  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  woman's  gaze.  "  Oh, 
God  —  God — oh,  God — "he  panted,  and  fell  upon  his 
face  across  the  sofa.  They  heard  a  hurrying  step  running 
toward  the  Hendricks  house,  there  came  a  frightened, 
choked  cry  of  "Help!  "  repeated  twice,  another  and  another 
sound  of  pattering  feet  came,  and  five  minutes  after  the 
quaking  man  had  entered  the  door  the  whole  neighbourhood 
seemed  to  be  alive  with  running  figures  hurrying  silently 
through  the  gloom.  The  thud  of  feet  and  the  pounding 
of  her  heart,  and  the  whimpering  of  the  little  man  who 
lay,  face  down,  on  the  sofa,  were  the  only  sounds  in  her 
ears.  She  started  to  go  with  the  crowd.  But  Adrian 
screamed  to  her  to  stay. 

"  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  he  sank  so  softly  —  he  sank  so  softly  — 
he  sank  so  softly  !  Oh,  God,  oh,  God  —  he  sank  so  softly  !  " 

And  the  next  conscious  record  of  her  memory  was  that 
of  Neal  Ward  bursting  into  the  room,  crying,  "  Aunt 
Molly  —  Aunt  Molly  —  do  you  know  Mr.  Hendricks  has 
committed  suicide  ?  They've  found  him  dead  with  a  pistol 
by  his  side.  I  want  some  whiskey  for  Miss  Hendricks. 
And  they  need  you  right  away." 


376  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

But  Molly  Brownwell,  with  what  composure  she  could, 
said,  "Adrian  is  sick,  Neal  —  I  can't — I  can't  leave  him 
now."  And  she  called  after  Neal  as  he  ran  toward  the 
door,  "Tell  them,  Neal,  tell  them  —  why  I  can't  come." 
There  was  a  hum  of  voices  in  the  air,  and  the  sound  of  a 
gathering  crowd.  Soon  the  shuffle  and  clatter  of  a  thou 
sand  feet  made  it  evident  that  the  meeting  at  Barclay 
Hall  had  heard  the  news  and  was  hurrying  up  the  hill. 
The  crowd  buzzed  for  an  hour,  and  Molly  and  Adrian 
Brownwell  waited  speechless  together  —  he  face  down 
ward  on  the  sofa,  she  huddled  in  a  chair  by  the  window. 
And  then  the  crowd  broke,  slowly,  first  into  small  groups 
that  moved  away  together  and  then  turned  in  a  steady 
stream  and  tramped,  tramped,  tramped  down  the  hill. 

When  the  silence  had  been  unbroken  a  long  time,  save 
by  the  rumble  of  a  buggy  on  the  asphalt  or  by  the  foot 
steps  of  some  stray  passer-by,  the  man  on  the  sofa  lifted 
his  head,  looked  at  his  wife  and  spoke,  "  Well,  Molly?" 

"  Well,  Adrian,"  she  answered,  "  this  is  the  end,  I  sup 
pose  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  time,  and  when  he  did  speak,  it 
was  in  a  dead,  passionless  voice  :  "  Yes  —  I  suppose  so.  I 
can't  stay  here  now." 

"  No  —  no,"  she  returned.  "  No,  you  should  not  stay 
here." 

He  sat  up  and  stared  vacantly  at  her  for  a  while  and 
then  said,  "  Though  I  don't  see  why  I  didn't  leave  years 
and  years  ago  ;  I  knew  all  this  then,  as  well  as  I  do  now." 

The  wife  looked  away  from  him  as  she  replied  :  "  Yes,  I 
should  have  known  you  would  know.  I  knew  your  se 
cret  and  you  —  " 

"  My  secret,"  said  Adrian,  "  my  secret  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  that  you  came  North  with  your  inherited  money 
because  when  you  were  in  the  Confederate  army  you  were 
a  coward  in  some  action  and  could  not  live  among  your 
own  people." 

"  Who  told  you,"  he  asked,  "  who  told  you  ?  " 

"  The  one  who  told  you  I  have  always  loved  Bob  ;  life 
has  told  me  that,  Adrian.  Jusi  as  life  has  told  you  my 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  377 

story."  They  sat  without  speaking  for  a  time,  and  then 
the  woman  sighed  and  rose.  "  Two  people  who  have 
lived  together  .twenty-five  years  can  have  no  secrets  from 
each  other.  In  a  thousand  ways  the  truth  comes  out." 

"  I  should  have  gone  away  a  long  time  ago,"  he  repeated, 
"  a  long  time  ago  ;  I  knew  it,  but  I  didn't  trust  my  in 
stincts." 

"  Here  comes  father,"  she  said,  as  the  gate  clicked. 

They  stood  together,  listening  to  the  slow  shuffle  of  the 
colonel  coming  up  the  walk,  and  the  heavy  fall  of  his  cane. 
The  wife  put  out  her  hand  and  said  gently,  "  I  think  I 
have  wronged  you,  Adrian,  more  than  any  one  else." 

He  did  not  take  her  hand  but  sighed,  and  turned  and  went 
up  the  wide  stairway.  He  was  an  old  man  then,  and  she 
remembered  the  years  when  he  tripped  up  gayly,  and  then 
she  looked  at  her  own  gray  hair  in  the  mirror  and  saw 
that  her  life  was  spent  too. 

As  the  colonel  came  in  gasping  asthmatically,  he  found 
his  daughter  waiting  for  him.  "Is  Adrian  better?"  he 
asked  excitedly.  "  Neal  said  Adrian  was  sick." 

"  Yes,  father,  he's  upstairs  packing.  He  is  going  out  on 
the  four  o'clock  train." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  colonel,  and  then  panted  a  moment  before 
asking,  "  Has  any  one  told  you  how  it  happened  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  know  everything.  I  think  I'll 
run  over  there  now,  father."  As  she  stood  in  the  doorway, 
she  said,  "Don't  bother  Adrian — he'll  need  no  help." 

And  so  Molly  Brownwell  passed  the  last  night  with  her 
dead  lover.  About  midnight  the  bell  rang  and  she  went 
to  the  door. 

"  Ah,  madam,"  said  Jacob  Dolan,  as  he  fumbled  in  his 
pockets,  and  tried  to  breathe  away  from  her  to  hide  the 
surcease  of  his  sorrow,  "Ah,  madam,"  he  repeated,  as  he 
suddenly  thought  to  pull  off  his  hat,  "  I  did  not  come  for 
you  —  'twas  Miss  Hendricks  I  called  for;  but  I  have  one 
for  you,  too.  He  gave  the  bundle  to  me  the  last  thing 
—  poor  lad,  poor  lad."  He  handed  her  the  letter  ad 
dressed  to  Mrs.  Brownwell,  and  then  asked,  "  Is  the  sister 
about  ?  " 


378  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

And  when  he  found  she  could  not  be  seen  he  went 
away,  and  Molly  Brownwell  sat  by  the  dead  man's  body 
and  read:  — 

"  My  darling  —  my  darling  —  they  will  let  a  dead  man 
say  that  to  you  —  won't  they  ?  And  yet,  so  far  as  any 
thought  of  mine  could  sin  against  you,  I  have  been  dead 
these  twenty  years.  Yet  I  know  that  I  have  loved  you  all 
that  time,  and  as  I  sit  alone  here  in  the  bank,  and  take  the 
bridle  off  my  heart,  the  old  throb  of  joy  that  we  both 
knew  as  children  comes  back  again.  It  is  such  a  strange 
thing — this  life — such  a  strange  thing."  Then  there  fol 
lowed  a  burst  of  passionate  regret  from  the  man's  very 
heart,  and  it  is  so  sacred  to  a  manly  love  that  curbed  itself 
for  a  score  of  years,  that  it  must  not  be  set  down  here. 

Over  and  over  Molly  Brownwell  read  the  letter  and 
then  crept  out  to  her  lilac  thicket  and  wept  till  dawn.  She 
heard  Adrian  Brownwell  go,  but  she  could  not  face  him, 
and  listened  as  his  footsteps  died  away,  and  he  passed  from 
her  life. 

And  John  Barclay  kept  vigil  for  the  dead  with  her.  As 
he  tossed  in  his  bed  through  the  night,  he  seemed  to  see 
glowing  out  of  the  darkness  before  him  the  words  Hen- 
dricks  had  written,  in  the  letter  that  Dolan  gave  Barclay 
at  midnight.  Sometimes  the  farewell  came  to  him : — 

"It  is  not  this  man  of  millions  that  I  wish  to  be  with  a 
moment  to-night,  John — but  the  boy  I  knew  in  the  old 
days  —  the  boy  who  ran  with  me  through  the  woods  at 
Wilson's  Creek,  the  boy  who  rode  over  the  hill  into  the 
world  with  me  that  September  day  forty  years  ago;  the 
boy  whose  face  used  to  beam  eagerly  out  of  yours  when 
you  sat  playing  at  your  old  melodeon.  I  wish  to  be  near 
him  a  little  while  to-night.  When  you  get  this,  can't  you 
go  to  your  great  organ  and  play  him  back  into  conscious 
ness  and  tell  him  Bob  says  good-by  ?  " 

At  dawn  Barclay  called  Bemis  out  of  bed,  and  before 
sunrise  he  and  Barclay  were  walking  on  the  terrace  in 
front  of  the  Barclay  home. 

"Lige,"  began  Barclay,  "did  you  tell  Adrian  of  that 
note  last  night?"  Bemis  grinned  his  assent. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  379 

* 

44  And  he  went  home,  found  Bob  there  conferring  with 
Mrs.  Brownwell  about  his  position  in  the  matter,  and 
Adrian  killed  him." 

"  That's  the  way  I  figured  it  out  myself,"  replied  Bemis, 
laconically,  "  but  it's  not  my  business  to  say  so." 

"  I  thought  you  promised  me  you  would  just  bluff  with 
that  note  and  not  go  so  far,  Lige  Bemis,"  said  Barclay. 

"  Did  he  just  bluff  with  me  when  he  called  me  a  boodler 
and  threw  me  downstairs  in  the  county  convention  ?  " 

44  Then  you  lied  to  me,  sir,"  snapped  Barclay. 

46  Oh,  hell,  John  —  come  off,"  sneered  Bemis.  44  Haven't 
I  got  a  right  to  lie  to  you  if  I  want  to  ?  " 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other  like  growling  dogs 
for  a  moment,  and  then  Barclay  turned  away  with,  "  What 
is  there  in  the  typhoid  talk?  " 

"Demagogery —  that's  all.  Of  course  there  may  be 
typhoid  in  the  water;  but  let'em  boil  the  water." 

"But  they  won't." 

44  Well,  then,  if  they  eat  too  much  of  your  4  Old  Hon 
esty  '  or  drink  too  much  of  my  water  unboiled,  they  take 
their  own  risk.  You  don't  make  a  breakfast  food  for 
hogs,  and  I  can't  run  my  water  plant  for  fools." 

44  But,  Lige,"  protested  Barclay,  "  couldn't  we  hitch  up 
the  electric  plant  —  " 

44  Hitch  up  the  devil  and  Tom  Walker,  John  Barclay. 
When  the  wolves  got  after  you,  did  I  come  blubbering  to 
you  to  lay  down  and  take  a  light  sentence  ?  "  Barclay 
did  not  answer.  Bemis  continued  :  44  Brace  up,  John  — 
what's  turned  you  baby  when  we've  got  the  whole  thing 
won?  We  didn't  kill  Hendricks,  did  we?  Are  you  full 
of  remorse  and  going  to  turn  state's  evidence  ?  " 

Barclay  looked  at  the  ground  for  a  time,  and  said :  "  I 
believe,  Lige,  we  did  kill  Bob  —  if  it  comes  to  that ;  and 
we  are  morally  responsible  for  —  " 

44  Oh,  bag  your  head,  John ;  I'm  going  home.  When 
you  can  talk  some  sense,  let  me  know." 

And  Bemis  left  Barclay  standing  in  the  garden  looking 
at  the  sunrise  across  the  mill-pond.  Presently  the  carrier 
boy  with  a  morning  paper  came  around,  and  in  it  Barclay 


380  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

read  the  account  of  Hendricks'  reported  suicide,  corrobo 
rated  by  his  antemortem  statement,  written  and  delivered 
to  Jacob  Dolan  an  hour  before  he  died. 

44  When  I  took  charge  of  the  Exchange  National  Bank," 
it  read,  44 1  found  that  my  father  owed  Garrison  County 
nine  thousand  dollars  for  another  man's  taxes,  which  he, 
my  father,  had  agreed  to  pay,  but  had  no  money  to  do  so. 
The  other  man  insisted  on  my  father  forging  a  note  to 
straighten  matters  up.  It  seemed  at  that  time  that  the 
bank  would  close  and  the  whole  county  would  be  ruined  if 
my  father  had  not  committed  that  deed.  I  could  not  put 
the  money  back  into  the  treasury  without  revealing  my 
father's  crime,  so  I  let  the  matter  run  for  a  few  years,  re 
newing  the  forged  note,  and  then,  as  it  seemed  an  inter 
minable  job  of  forgery,  I  forged  the  balance  on  the  county 
books,  one  afternoon  between  administrations  in  1879. 
Mr.  E.  W.  Bemis,  who  is  trying  to  force  polluted  water 
on  Sycamore  Ridge,  has  discovered  this  forgery  and  has 
threatened  to  expose  me  in  that  and  perhaps  other  matters. 
So  I  feel  that  my  usefulness  in  the  fight  for  pure  water  in 
the  town  is  ended.  I  leave  funds  to  fight  the  matter  in 
the  courts,  and  I  feel  sure  that  we  will  win." 

Barclay  sat  in  the  warm  morning  sun,  reading  and  re 
reading  the  statement.  Finally  Jane  Barclay,  thin,  broken 
and  faded,  on  whom  the  wrath  of  the  people  was  falling 
with  crushing  weight,  came  into  the  veranda,  and  put 
her  hands  on  her  husband's  shoulders. 

"  Come  in,  John,  breakfast  is  ready." 

The  woman  whom  the  leprosy  of  dishonest  wealth  was 
whitening,  walked  dumbly  into  the  great  house,  and  ate 
in  silence.  44 1  am  going  to  Molly,"  she  said  simply,  as 
the  two  rose  from  their  meal.  44I  think  she  needs  me, 
dear ;  won't  you  come,  too?  "  she  asked. 

44 1  can't,  Jane  —  I  can't,"  cried  Barclay.  And  when 
his  wrife  had  pressed  him,  he  broke  forth  :  44  Because  Lige 
Bemis  made  Adrian  kill  Bob  and  I  helped — '"  he  groaned, 
and  sank  into  his  chair,  "and  I  helped." 

When  Neal  Ward  came  to  the  office  the  next  morning,  he 
found  Dolan  waiting  for  him.  Ward  opened  the  envelope 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  381 

that  Dolan  gave  him,  and  found  in  it  the  mortgage  Hen- 
dricks  had  owned  on  the  Banner  office,  assigned  to  Ward, 
and  around  the  mortgage  was  a  paper  band  on  which  was 
written:  "God  bless  you,  my  boy — keep  up  the  fight; 
never  say  die." 

Then  Ward  read  Adrian  Brownwell's  valedictory  that 
was  hanging  on  a  copy  spike  before  him.  It  was  the 
heart-broken  sob  of  an  old  man  who  had  run  away  from 
failure  and  sorrow,  and  it  need  not  be  printed  here. 

On  Memorial  Day,  when  they  came  to  the  cemetery  on 
the  hill  to  decorate  the  soldiers'  graves,  men  saw  that  the 
great  mound  of  lilacs  on  Robert  Hendricks'  grave  had  with 
ered.  The  seven  days'  wonder  of  his  passing  was  ended. 
The  business  that  he  had  left  prospered  without  him,  or  lan 
guished  and  died;  within  a  week  in  all  but  a  dozen  hearts 
Hendricks'  memory  began  to  recede  into  the  past,  and  so, 
where  there  had  been  a  bubble  on  the  tide,  that  held  in 
its  prism  of  light  for  a  brief  bit  of  eternity  all  of  God's 
spectacle  of  life,  suddenly  there  was  only  the  tide  moving 
resistlessly  toward  the  unknown  shore.  And  thus  it  is 
with  all  of  us. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

IN  the  summer  of  1904,  following  the  death  of  Robert 
Hendricks,  John  Barclay  spent  much  time  in  the  Ridge, 
more  time  than  he  had  spent  there  for  thirty  years.  For 
in  the  City  he  was  a  marked  man.  Every  time  the  market 
quivered,  reporters  rushed  to  get  his  opinion  about  the 
cause  of  the  disturbance;  the  City  papers  were  full  of 
stories  either  of  his  own  misdeeds,  or  of  the  wrong-doings 
of  other  men  of  his  caste.  His  cronies  were  dying  all 
about  him  of  broken  hearts  or  wrecked  minds,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  word  "  indictment  "  was  in  every 
column  of  every  newspaper,  was  on  every  man's  lips,  and 
literally  floated  in  the  air. 

So  he  remained  in  Sycamore  Ridge  much  of  the  time, 
and  every  fair  afternoon  he  rowed  himself  up  the  mill-pond 
to  fish.  He  liked  to  be  alone  ;  for  when  he  was  alone,  he 
could  fight  the  battle  in  his  soul  without  interruption. 
The  combat  had  been  gathering  for  a  year;  a  despair  was 
rising  in  him,  that  he  concealed  from  his  womenkind  — 
who  were  his  only  intimate  associates  in  those  days  —  as 
if  it  had  been  a  crime.  But  out  on  the  mill-pond  alone, 
casting  minnows  for  bass,  he  could  let  the  melancholy  in 
his  heart  rage  and  battle  with  his  sanity,  without  let  or 
hindrance.  His  business  was  doing  well;  the  lawsuits 
against  the  company  in  a  dozen  states  were  not  affecting 
dividends,  and  the  department  in  charge  of  his  charities 
was  forwarding  letters  of  condolence  and  consolation 
from  preachers  and  college  presidents,  and  men  who  under 
the  old  regime  had  been  in  high  walks  of  life.  Occasion 
ally  some  conservative  newspaper  or  magazine  would 
praise  him  and  his  company  highly  ;  but  he  knew  the 
shallowness  of  all  the  patter  of  praise.  He  knew  that  he 
paid  for  it  in  one  way  or  another,  and  he  grew  cynical ; 

382 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  383 

and  in  his  lonely  afternoons  on  the  river,  often  he  laughed 
at  the  whole  mockery  of  his  career,  smiled  at  the  thought 
of  organized  religion,  licking  his  boots  for  money  like  a 
dog  for  bones,  and  then  in  his  heart  he  said  there  is  no  God. 
Once,  to  relieve  the  pain  of  his  soul's  woe,  he  asked  aloud, 
who  is  God,  anyway,  and  then  laughed  as  he  thought  that 
the  bass  nibbling  at  his  minnow  would  soon  think  he, 
John  Barclay,  was  God.  The  analogy  pleased  him,  and 
he  thought  that  his  own  god,  some  devilish  fate,  had  the 
string  through  his  gills  at  that  moment  and  was  prepar 
ing  to  cast  him  into  the  fire.  Up  in  the  office  in  the  city, 
they  went  on  making  senators  and  governors,  and  slipping 
a  federal  judge  in  where  they  could,  but  he  had  little  hand 
in  it,  for  his  power  was  a  discarded  toy.  He  sat  in  his 
boat  alone,  rowing  for  miles  and  miles,  from  stump  to 
stump,  and  from  fallen  tree-top  to  tree-top,  hating  the 
thing  he  called  God,  and  distrusting  men. 

But  when  he  appeared  in  the  town,  or  at  home,  he  was 
cheerful  enough ;  he  liked  to  mingle  with  the  people,  and 
it  fed  his  despair  to  notice  what  a  hang-dog  way  they  had 
with  him.  He  knew  they  had  been  abusing  him  behind 
his  back,  and  when  he  found  out  exactly  what  a  man  had 
said,  he  delighted  in  facing  the  man  down  with  it. 

"  So  you  think  John  Barclay  could  have  saved  Bob 
Hendricks'  life,  do  you,  Oscar  ? "  asked  Barclay,  as  he 
overhauled  Fernald  coming  out  of  the  post-office. 

"  Who  said  so  ?  "  asked  Fernald,  turning  red. 

"  Oh,"  chuckled  Barclay,  "  I  got  it  from  the  hired  girls' 
wireless  news  agency.  But  you  said  it  all  right  —  you 
said  it,  Oscar ;  you  said  it  over  to  Ward's  at  dinner  night 
before  last."  And  Barclay  grinned  maliciously. 

Fernald  scratched  his  head,  and  said,  "Well,  John,  to 
be  frank  with  you,  that's  the  talk  all  over  town  —  among 
the  people." 

"The  people  —  the  people,"  snapped  Barclay,  impa 
tiently,  "the  people  take  my  money  for  bridges  and  halls 
and  parks  and  churches  and  statues  and  then  call  me  a 
murderer  —  oh,  damn  the  people  I  Who  started  this 
story  ?  " 


384  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

"  See  Jake  Dolan,  John  —  it's  up  to  him.  He  can  sat 
isfy  you,"  said  Fernald,  and  turned,  leaving  Barclay  in 
the  street. 

Up  the  hill  trudged  the  gray-clad  little  man,  with  his 
pugnacious  shoulders  weaving  and  his  bronzed  face  set 
hard  and  his  mean  jaw  locked.  On  the  steps  of  the  court 
house  he  found  Jake  Dolan,  smoking  a  morning  pipe  with 
the  loafers  in  the  shade  of  the  building. 

"  Here  you,  Jake  Dolan,"  called  Barclay,  "  what  do 
you  mean  by  accusing  me  of  murdering  Bob  Hendricks  ? 
What  did  I  have  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Easy,  easy,  Johnnie,  my  boy,"  returned  Dolan,  knock 
ing  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  on  the  steps  between  his  feet. 
"  Gentlemen,"  said  Dolan,  addressing  the  crowd,  "  you've 
heard  what  our  friend  says.  All  right  —  come  with  me 
to  my  office,  Johnnie  Barclay,  and  I'll  show  you."  Bar 
clay  followed  Dolan  into  the  basement  of  the  court-house, 
with  the  crowd  at  a  respectful  distance.  "  Right  this 
way  —  "  and  Dolan  switched  on  an  electric  light.  "  Do 
you  see  that  break  in  the  foundation,  Mr.  Barclay  ?  You 
do  ?  And  you  know  in  your  soul  that  it  opens  into  the 
cave  that  leads  to  the  cellar  of  your  own  house.  Well, 
then,  Mr.  Johnnie  Barclay  —  the  book  that  contained  the 
evidence  against  Bob  Hendricks  did  not  go  out  of  this 
court-house  by  the  front  door,  as  you  well  know,  but 
through  that  hole  —  stolen  at  night  when  I  was  out;  and 
the  man  who  stole  it  was  the  horse  thief  that  used  to  run 
the  cave  —  your  esteemed  friend,  Lige  Bemis." 

The  crowd  was  gaping  at  the  rickety  place  in  the  foun 
dation,  and  one  man  pulled  a  loose  stone  out  and  let  the 
cold  air  of  the  cave  into  the  room. 

"  Lige  Bemis  came  to  your  house,  Mr.  Johnnie  Barclay, 
got  into  the  cave  from  your  cellar,  broke  through  this  wall, 
and  stole  the  book  that  contained  the  forgery  made  to 
cover  General  Hendricks'  disgrace.  And  who  caused 
that  disgrace  but  the  overbearing,  domineering  John  Bar 
clay,  who  made  that  old  man  steal  to  pay  John  Barclay's 
taxes,  back  in  the  grasshopper  year,  when  the  sheriff  and 
the  jail  were  almost  as  familiar  to  him  as  they  are  now,  — 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  385 

by  all  counts.  Ah,  John  Barclay,"  said  the  Irishman, 
turning  to  the  crowd,  "John  Barclay,  John  Barclay  — 
you're  a  brave  little  man  sometimes ;  I've  seen  you  when 
I  was  most  ungodly  proud  of  you ;  I've  seen  you  do  grand 
things,  my  little  man,  grand  things.  But  you're  a  coward 
too,  Johnnie  ;  sitting  in  your  own  house  while  your  horse- 
thief  friend  used  your  cellar  to  work  out  the  disgrace  of 
the  man  who  gave  his  good  name  to  save  your  own  — 
that  was  a  fine  trick  —  a  damn  fine  trick,  wasn't  it,  Mr. 
Barclay  ?  " 

Barclay  started  to  go,  but  the  crowd  blocked  his 
way.  Dolan  saw  that  Barclay  was  trying  to  escape. 
"  Turn  tail,  will  you,  my  little  man  ?  Wait  one  min 
ute,"  cried  Dolan.  "Wait  one  minute,  sir.  For  what 
was  you  conniving  against  the  big  man?  I  know  — 
to  win  your  game;  to  win  your  miserable  little  game. 
Ah,  what  a  pup  a  man  can  be,  Johnnie,  what  a  mangy, 
miserable,  cowardly  little  pup  a  man  can  be  when  he 
tries  —  and  a  decent  man,  too.  Money  don't  mean  any 
thing  to  you  —  you  got  past  that,  but  it's  to  win  the  game. 
Why,  man,  look  at  yourself  —  look  at  yourself  —  you'd 
cheat  your  own  mother  playing  cards  with  matches  for 
counters  —  just  to  win  the  game."  Dolan  waved  for  the 
crowd  to  break.  "  Let  him  out  of  here,  and  get  out  your 
selves  —  every  one  of  you.  This  is  public  property  you're 
desecrating." 

Dolan  sat  alone  in  his  office,  pale  and  trembling  after 
the  crowd  had  gone.  Colonel  Culpepper  came  puffing  in 
and  saw  the  Irishman  sitting  with  his  head  in  his  hands  and 
his  elbows  on  the  table. 

"What's  this,  Jake — what's  this  I  hear?"  asked  the 
colonel. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  answered  Dolan,  and  then  he  looked  up 
at  the  colonel  with  sad,  remorseful  eyes.  "  What  a  fool  — 
what  a  fool  whiskey  in  a  man's  tongue  is  —  what  a  fool." 
He  reached  under  his  cot  for  his  jug,  and  repeated  as  he 
poured  the  liquor  into  a  glass,  "  What  a  fool,  what  a  fool, 
what  a  fool."  And  then,  as  he  gulped  it  down  and  made 
a  wry  face,  "  Poor  little  Johnnie  at  the  mill ;  I  didn't  mean 
2c 


386  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

to  hit  him  so  hard  —  not  half  so  hard.  What  a  fool,  what 
a  fool,"  and  the  two  old  men  started  off  for  the  harness 
shop  together. 

Neal  Ward  that  night,  in  the  Banner  office  alone,  wrote  to 
his  sweetheart  the  daily  letter  that  was  never  mailed. 

"  How  sweet  it  is,"  he  writes,  "  to  have  you  at  home.  Sometimes  I 
hear  your  voice  through  the  old  leaky  telephone,  talking  to  Aunt 
Molly ;  her  phone  and  ours  are  through  the  same  board,  and  your  voice 
seems  natural  then,  and  unstrained,  not  as  it  is  when  we  meet.  But  I 
know  that  some  way  we  are  meeting  —  our  souls  —  in  the  infinite  realm 
outside  ourselves  —  beyond  our  consciousness  —  either  sleeping  or  wak 
ing.  Last  night  I  dreamed  a  strange  dream.  A  little  girl,  like  one  of 
the  pictures  in  mother's  old  family  photograph  album,  seemed  to  be 
talking  with  me,—  dressed  so  quaintly  in  the  dear  old  fashion  of  the  days 
when  mother  taught  the  Sycamore  Ridge  School.  She  seemed  to  be 
playing  with  me  in  some  way,  and  then  she  said :  'Oh,  yes,  I  am  your 
telephone  ;  she  knows  all  about  it.  I  tell  her  every  night  as  we  play  to 
gether.'  And  then  she  was  no  longer  a  little  girl  but  a  most  beautiful 
soul  and  she  said  with  great  gentleness  :  '  In  her  heart  she  loves  you  — 
in  her  heart  she  loves  you.  This  I  know,  only  she  is  proud — proud 
with  the  Barclay  pride ;  but  in  her  heart  she  loves  you ;  is  not  that 
enough?'  What  a  strange  dream!  I  wonder  where  we  are — we 
who  animate  our  bodies,  when  we  sleep.  What  is  sleep,  but  the  proof 
that  death  is  but  a  sleep?  Oh,  Jeanette,  Jeanette,  come  into  my  soul 
as  we  sleep." 

He  folded  the  letter,  sealed  and  addressed  it,  and  dated 
the  envelope,  and  put  it  in  his  desk — the  desk  before  which 
Adrian  Brownwell  had  sat,  eating  his  heart  out  in  futile 
endeavour  to  find  his  place  in  the  world.  Neal  Ward  had 
cleaned  out  one  side  of  the  desk,  and  was  using  that  for 
his  own.  Mrs.  Brownwell  kept  her  papers  in  the  other 
side,  and  one  key  locked  them  both.  As  he  walked  home 
that  night  under  the  stars,  his  heart  was  full  of  John  Bar 
clay's  troubles.  Neal  knew  Barclay  well  enough  to  know 
that  the  sensitive  nature  of  the  man,  with  his  strongly  de 
veloped  instinctive  faculty  for  getting  at  the  truth,  would 
be  his  curse  in  the  turmoil  or  criticism  through  which  he 
was  going.  So  a  day  or  two  later  Neal  was  not  surprised 
to  find  a  long  statement  in  the  morning  press  despatches 
from  Barclay  explaining  and  defending  the  methods  of  the 
National  Provisions  Company.  He  proved  carefully  that 
the  notorious  Door  Strip  saved  large  losses  in  transit  of  the 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  387 

National  Provisions  Company's  grain  and  grain  produce, 
and  showed  that  in  paying  him  for  the  use  of  these  strips 
the  railroad  companies  were  saving  great  sums  for  widowed 
and  orphaned  stockholders  of  railroads  —  sums  which 
would  be  his  due  for  losses  in  transit  if  the  strips  were 
not  used. 

Neal  Ward  knew  what  it  had  cost  Barclay  in  pride  to  give 
out  that  statement ;  so  the  young  man  printed  it  on  the 
first  page  of  the  Banner  with  a  kind  editorial  about  Mr. 
Barclay  and  his  good  works.  That  night  when  the  paper 
was  off,  and  young  Ward  was  working  on  the  books  of  his 
office,  he  was  called  to  the  telephone. 

"  Is  this  you,  Nealie  Ward  ?  "  asked  a  woman's  voice  — 
the  strong,  clear,  deep  voice  of  an  old  woman.  And  when 
he  had  answered,  the  voice  went  on :  "  Well,  Nealie,  I  wish 
to  thank  you  for  that  editorial  about  John  to-night  in  the 
paper  ;  I'm  Mary  Barclay.  It  isn't  more  than  half  true, 
Nealie  ;  and  if  it  was  all  true,  it  isn't  a  fraction  of  what 
the  truth  ought  to  be  if  John  did  what  he  could,  but  it 
will  do  him  a  lot  of  good  —  right  here  in  the  home  paper, 
and —  Why,  Jennie,  I'm  speaking  with  Nealie  Ward, — 
why,  do  you  think  I  am  not  old  enough  to  talk  with  Nealie 
without  breeding  scandal  ?  —  as  I  was  saying,  my  dear,  it 
will  cheer  John  up  a  little,  and  heaven  knows  he  needs 
something.  I'm —  Jennie,  for  mercy  sakes  keep  still;  I 
know  Nealie  Ward  and  I  knew  his  father  when  he  wasn't 
as  old  as  Nealie  —  did  his  washing  for  him  ;  and  boarded 
his  mother  four  winters,  and  I  have  a  right  to  say  what  I 
want  to  to  that  child."  The  boy  and  the  grandmother 
laughed  into  the  telephone.  "  Jennie  is  so  afraid  I'll  do 
something  improper,"  laughed  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  Oh,  yes, 
by  the  way  —  here's  a  little  item  for  your  paper  to-mor 
row  :  Jennie's  mother  is  sick  ;  I  think  it's  typhoid,  but 
you  can't  get  John  to  admit  it.  So  don't  say  typhoid." 
Then  with  a  few  more  words  she  rang  off. 

When  the  Banner  printed  the  item  about  Mrs.  Barclay's 
illness,  the  town,  in  one  of  those  outbursts  of  feeling  which 
communities  often  have,  seemed  to  try  to  show  John  Bar 
clay  the  affection  that  was  in  their  hearts  for  the  man  who 


388  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

had  grown  up  among  them,  and  the  family  that  had  been 
established  under  his  name.  Flowers  —  summer  flowers 
—  poured  in  on  the  Barclays.  Children  came  with  wild 
flowers,  prairie  flowers  that  Jane  Barclay  had  not  seen 
since  she  roamed  over  the  unbroken  sod  about  Min- 
neola  as  a  girl ;  and  Colonel  Culpepper  came  marching  up 
the  walk  through  the  Barclay  grounds,  bearing  his  old- 
fashioned  bouquet,  as  grandly  as  an  ambassador  bringing 
a  king's  gift.  Jane  Barclay  sent  word  that  she  wished  to 
see  him. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  colonel,  as  he  held  the  flowers  to 
ward  her,  "  accept  these  flowers  from-  those  who  have 
shared  your  bounty  —  from  God's  poor,  my  dear  ;  these 
are  God's  smiles  that  they  send  you  from  their  hearts  — 
from  their  very  hearts,  my  dear,  from  their  poor  hearts 
wherein  God's  smiles  come  none  too  often."  She  saw 
through  glistening  eyes  the  broken  old  figure,  with  his 
coat  tightly  buttoned  on  that  July  day  to  hide  some  shab- 
biness  underneath.  But  she  bade  the  colonel  sit  down, 
and  they  chatted  of  old  times  and  old  places  and  old  faces 
for  a  few  minutes  ;  and  the  colonel,  to  whom  any  sort  of 
social  function  was  a  rare  and  sweet  occasion,  stayed  until 
the  nurse  had  to  beckon  him  out  of  the  room  over  Mrs. 
Barclay's  shoulder. 

General  Ward  sent  a  note  with  a  bunch  of  monthly 
blooming  roses. 

"Mr  DEAR  JANE  (he  wrote)  :  "  These  roses  are  from  slips  we  got 
from  John's  mother  when  we  planted  our  little  yard.  This  red  one 
is  from  the  very  bush  on  which  grew  the  rose  John  wore  at  his  wed 
ding.  Pin  it  on  the  old  scamp  to-night,  and  see  how  he  will  look.  He 
was  a  dapper  little  chap  that  night,  and  the  years  have  hardly  begun 
their  work  on  him ;  or  perhaps  he  is  such  a  tough  customer  that  he 
dulls  the  chisel  of  time.  I  do  not  know,  and  so  long  as  it  is  so,  you  do 
not  care,  but  we  both  know,  and  are  both  glad  that  of  all  the  many 
things  God  has  sent  you  in  thirty  years,  he  has  sent  you  nothing  so 
fine  as  the  joy  that  came  with  the  day  John  wore  this  rose  for  you  —  a 
joy  that  has  grown  while  the  rose  has  faded.  And  may  this  rose 
renew  your  joy  for  another  thirty  years." 

John  read  the  note  when  he  came  in  from  the  mill  that 
evening,  and  Jane  watched  the  years  slip  off  his  face.  He 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  389 

looked  into  the  past  as  it  spread  itself  on  the  carpet  near 
the  bed. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  he  said,  as  he  smiled  into  the  pic 
ture  he  saw,  "I  remember  as  well  the  general  bringing 
that  rose  down  to  the  office  that  morning,  wrapped  in  blue 
tissue  paper  from  cotton  batting  rolls  !  The  package  was 
tied  with  fancy  red  braid  that  used  to  bind  muslin  bolts." 
He  laughed  quietly,  and  asked,  "  Jane,  do  you  remember 
that  old  red  braid?"  The  sick  woman  nodded.  "Well, 
with  the  little  blue  package  was  a  note  from  Miss  Lucy, 
which  said  that  my  old  teacher  could  not  give  me  a  pres 
ent  that  year  —  times  were  cruelly  hard  then,  you  remem 
ber — but  that  she  could  and  did  put  the  blessing  of  her 
prayers  on  the  rose,  that  all  that  it  witnessed  at  my  wed 
ding  would  bring  me  happiness."  He  sat  for  a  moment 
in  silence,  and,  as  the  nurse  was  gone,  he  knelt  beside  the 
sick  woman  and  kissed  her.  And  as  the  wife  stroked  his 
head  she  whispered,  "  How  that  prayer  has  been  answered, 
John  —  dear, hasn't  it?"  And  the  great  clock  in  the  silent 
hall  below  ticked  away  some  of  the  happiest  minutes  it  had 
ever  measured. 

But  when  he  passed  out  of  the  sick  room,  the  world  — 
the  maddening  press  of  affairs,  and  the  combat  in  his  soul 
—  snapped  back  on  his  shoulders  with  a  mental  click  as 
though  a  load  had  fallen  into  its  old  place.  He  stood 
before  his  organ,  and  could  not  press  the  keys.  As  he 
sat  there  in  the  twilight  made  by  the  shaded  electric  lamps,  • 
the  struggle  rose  in  his  heart  against  the  admission  of  / 
anything  into  his  scheme  of  life  but  material  things,  and 
the  conflict  raged  unchecked.  What  a  silliness,  he  said, 
to  think  that  the  mummery  of  a  woman  over  a  rose  could 
affect  a  life.  Life  is  what  the  succession  of  the  days  brings. 
The  thing  is  or  is  not,  he  said  to  himself,  and  the  gibber 
about  prayer  and  the  moral  force  that  moves  the  universe 
is  for  the  weak-minded.  So  he  took  his  hell  to  bed  with 
him  as  it  went  every  night,  and  during  the  heavy  hours 
when  he  could  not  sleep,  he  tiptoed  into  the  sick  room,  and 
looked  at  the  thin  face  of  his  wife,  sleeping  a  restless, 
feverish  sleep,  and  a  great  fear  came  into  his  heart. 


390  •     A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Once  as  the  morning  dawned  he  asked  the  nurse  whom 
he  met  in  the  hall,  "Is  it  typhoid?" 

She  was  a  stranger  to  the  town,  and  she  said  to  him, 
"  What  does  the  doctor  tell  you  ?  " 

"That's  not  the  point,"  he  insisted.  "What  do  you 
think?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  an  undecided  moment  and  replied, 
"I'm  not  paid  to  think,  Mr.  Barclay,"  and  went  past  him 
with  her  work.  But  he  knew  the  truth.  He  went  to  his 
bed,  and  threw  himself  upon  it,  a-tremble  with  remorse  and 
fear,  and  the  sneer  in  his  heart  stilled  his  lips  and  he  could 
not  look  outside  himself  for  help.  So  the  morning  came, 
and  another  day,  bringing  its  thousand  cares,  faced  him, 
like  a  jailer  with  his  tortures. 

Time  dragged  slowly  in  the  sick  room  and  at  the  mill. 
One  doctor  brought  another,  and  the  Barclay  private  car 
went  far  east  and  came  flying  back  with  a  third.  The  town 
knew  that  Mrs.  John  Barclay  was  dangerously  sick.  There 
came  hopeful  days  when  the  patient's  mind  was  clear;  on 
one  of  these  days  Mrs.  McHurdie  called,  and  they  let  her 
see  the  sick  woman.  She  brought  some  flowers. 

"  In  the  flowers,  Jane,"  she  said,  "  you  will  find  some 
thing  from  Watts."  Mrs.  McHurdie  smiled.  "  You  know 
he  sat  up  till  'way  after  midnight  last  night,  playing  his 
accordion.  Oh,  it's  been  years  since  he  has  touched  it. 
And  this  morning  when  I  got  up,  I  found  him  sitting  by 
the  kitchen  table,  writing.  It's  a  poem  for  you."  Mrs. 
McHurdie  looked  rather  sheepish  as  she  said :  "  You  know 
how  Watts  is,  Jane ;  he  just  made  me  bring  it.  You  can 
read  it  when  you  get  well." 

They  hurried  Mrs.  McHurdie  out,  and  when  Jane  Bar 
clay  went  to  sleep,  they  found  tears  on  her  pillow,  and  in 
her  hand  the  verses,  —  the  limping,  awkward  verses  of  an 
old  man,  whose  music  only  echoed  back  from  the  past. 
The  nurses  and  the  young  doctor  from  Boston  had  a  good 
laugh  at  it.  Each  of  the  four  stanzas  began  with  two 
lines  that  asked  :  "  Oh,  don't  you  remember  the  old  river 
road,  that  ran  through  the  sweet-scented  wood? "  To 
them  it  was  a  curious  parody  on  something  old  and  quaint 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  39\ 

that  they  had  long  since  forgotten.  But  to  the  woman 
who  lay  murmuring  of  other  days,  whose  lips  were  parched 
for  the  waters  of  brooks  that  had  surrendered  to  the 
plough  a  score  of  years  ago,  the  halting  verses  of  Watts 
McHurdie  were  laden  with  odours  of  grape  blossoms,  of 
wild  cucumbers  and  sumach,  of  elder  blossoms,  and  the 
fragrance  of  the  crushed  leaves  of  autumn.  And  the 
music  of  distant  ripples  played  in  her  feverish  brain  and 
the  sobbing  voice  of  the  turtle  dove  sang  out  of  the  past 
for  her  as  she  slept.  All  through  the  day  and  the  night 
and  for  many  nights  and  days  she  whispered  of  the  trees 
and  the  running  water  and  the  wild  grass  and  the  birds. 

And  so  one  morning  when  it  was  still  gray,  she 
woke  and  said  to  John,  who  bent  over  her,  "  Why,  dear, 
we  are  almost  home  ;  there  are  the  lights  across  the  river; 
just  one  more  hill,  dearie,  and  then  —  "  And  then  with 
the  water  prattling  in  her  ears  at  the  last  ford  she  turned 
to  the  wall  and  sank  to  rest. 

Day  after  day,  until  the  days  and  nights  became  a 
week  and  the  week  repeated  itself  until  nearly  a  month 
was  gone,  John  Barclay,  dry-eyed  and  all  but  dumb, 
paced  the  terrace  before  his  house  by  night,  and  by  day 
roamed  through  the  noisy  mill  or  wandered  through  his 
desolate  house,  seeking  peace  that  would  not  come  to  him. 
The  whole  foundation  of  his  scheme  of  life  was  crumbling 
beneath  him.  He  had  built  thirty-five  years  of  his  man- 
hood  upon  the  theory  that  the  human  brain  is  the  god  of 
things  as  they  are  and  as  they  must  be.  The  structure  of 
his  life  was  an  imposing  edifice,  and  men  called  it  great  and 
successful.  Yet  as  he  walked  his  lonely  way  in  those  black 
days  that  followed  Jane's  death,  there  came  into  his  conscious 
ness  a  strong,  overmastering  conviction,  which  he  dared  not 
accept,  that  his  house  was  built  on  sand.  For  here  were 
things  outside  of  his  plans,  outside  of  his  very  beliefs,  com 
ing  into  his  life,  bringing  calamity,  sorrow,  and  tragedy  with 
them  into  his  own  circle  of  friends,  into  his  own  household, 
into  his  own  heart.  As  he  walked  through  the  dull,  lonely 
hours  he  could  not  escape  the  vague  feeling,  though  he 
fought  it  as  one  mad  fights  for  his  delusion,  that  all  the 


392  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

tragedies  piling  up  about  him  came  from  his  own  mistakes. 
Over  and  over  again  he  threshed  the  past.  Molly  Brown- 
well's  cry,  "  You  have  sold  me  into  bondage,  John 
Barclay,"  would  not  be  stilled,  though  at  times  he  could 
smile  at  it ;  and  the  broken  body  and  shamed  face  of  her 
father  haunted  him  like  an  obsession.  Night  after  night 
when  he  tried  to  sleep,  Robert  Hendricks'  letter  burned 
in  fire  before  his  eyes,  and  at  last  so  mad  was  the  struggle 
in  his  soul  that  he  hugged  these  things  to  him  that  he 
might  escape  the  greater  horror :  the  dreadful  red  head 
lines  in  the  sensational  paper  they  had  sent  him  from  the 
City  office  which  screamed  at  him,  "  John  Barclay  slays 
his  wife  —  Aids  a  water  franchise  grab  that  feeds  the 
people  typhoid  germs  and  his  own  wife  dies  of  the  fever." 
He  had  not  replied  to  the  letter  from  the  law  department 
of  the  Provisions  Company  which  asked  if  he  wished  to 
sue  for  libel,  and  begged  him  to  do  so.  He  had  burned 
the  paper,  but  the  headlines  were  seared  into  his  brain. 

Over  and  over  he  climbed  the  fiery  ladder  of  his  sins: 
the  death  of  General  Hendricks,  the  sacrifice  of  Molly 
Culpepper,  the  temptation  and  fall  of  her  father,  the  death 
of  his  boyhood's  friend,  and  then  the  headlines.  These 
things  were  laid  at  his  door,  and  over  and  over  again,  like 
Sisyphus  rolling  the  stones  uphill,  he  swept  them  away 
from  his  threshold,  only  to  find  that  they  rolled  right  back 
again.  And  with  them  came  at  times  the  suspicion  that 
his  daughter's  unhappiness  was  upon  him  also.  And 
besides  these  things,  a  hundred  business  transactions 
wherein  he  had  cheated  and  lied  for  money  rose  to  disturb 
him.  And  through  it  all,  through  his  anguish  and  shame, 
the  faith  of  his  life  kept  battling  for  its  dominion. 

Once  he  sent  for  Bemis  and  tried  to  talk  himself  into 
peace  with  his  friend.  He  did  not  speak  of  the  things 
that  were  corroding  his  heart,  but  he  sat  by  and  heard 
himself  chatter  his  diabolic  creed  as  a  drunkard  watches 
his  own  folly. 

"  Lige,"  he  said,  "  I'm  sick  of  that  infernal  charities 
bureau  we've  got.  I'm  going  to  abolish  it.  These  phil 
anthropic  millionaires  make  me  sick  at  the  stomach,  Lige. 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  393 

What  do  they  care  for  the  people  ?  They  know  what  I 
know,  that  the  damn  people  are  here  to  be  skinned."  He 
laughed  viciously  and  went  on  :  "  Sometimes  I  think  we 
filthy  rich  are  divided  into  two  classes :  those  of  us  who 
keep  mistresses,  and  those  of  us  who  have  harmless 
little  entanglements  with  preachers  and  college  presidents. 
Neither  the  lemon-haired  women  nor  the  college  presidents 
interfere  with  our  business;  they  don't  hamper  us  —  not 
the  slightest.  They  just  take  our  money,  and  for  a  few 
idle  hours  amuse  us,  and  make  us  feel  that  we  are  good 
fellows.  As  for  me,  I'll  have  neither  women  nor  college 
presidents  purring  around  my  ankles.  I'm  going  to  cut 
out  the  philanthropy  appropriation  to-day." 

And  he  was  as  good  as  his  word.  But  that  did  not 
help.  The  truth  kept  wrenching  his  soul,  and  his  feet 
blindly  kept  trying  to  find  a  path  to  peace. 

It  was  late  one  night  in  August,  and  a  dead  moon  was 
hanging  in  the  south,  when,  treading  the  terrace  before  his 
house,  he  saw  a  shadow  moving  down  the  stairway  in  the 
hall.  At  first  his  racked  nerves  quivered,  but  when  he 
found  that  it  was  his  mother,  he  went  to  meet  her,  exclaim 
ing  as  he  mounted  the  steps  to  the  veranda,  "  Why, 
mother,  what  is  it  —  is  anything  wrong?" 

Though  it  was  past  midnight,  Mary  Barclay  was  dressed 
for  the  day.  She  stood  in  the  doorway  with  the  dimmed 
light  behind  her,  a  tall,  strong  woman,  straight  and  gaunt 
as  a  Nemesis.  "No,  John  —  nothing  is  wrong  —  in  the 
house."  She  walked  into  the  veranda  and  began  as  she 
approached  a  chair,  "  Sit  down,  John;  I  wish  to  talk  with 
you." 

"Well,  mother  —  what  is  it?"  asked  the  son,  as  he  sat 
facing  her. 

She  paused  a  moment  looking  earnestly  at  his  face  and  re 
plied,  "The  time  has  come  when  we  must  talk  this  thing 
out,  John,  soul  to  soul." 

He  shrank  from  what  was  coming.  His  instinct  told 
him  to  fight  away  the  crisis.  He  began  to  palaver,  but 
his  mother  cut  him  short,  as  she  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Why  don't  you  let  Him  in,  John  ?  " 


394  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

"  Let  who  in  ?  "  asked  her  son. 

"  You  know  Whom,  John  Barclay  ;  that  was  your  grand 
father  speaking  then,  the  old  polly  foxer.  You  know, 
my  boy.  Don't  you  remember  me  bending  over  the  town 
wash-tub  when  you  were  a  child,  Johnnie?  Don't  you 
remember  the  old  song  I  used  to  sing  —  of  course  you  do, 
child — as  I  rubbed  the  clothes  on  the  board  :  4  Let  Him 
in, -He  is  your  friend,  let  Him  in,  He  is  your  friend;  He 
will  keep  you  to  the  end — let  —  Him — 'in!'  Of  course 
you  remember  it,  boy,  and  you  have  been  lighting  Him  with 
all  your  might  for  six  months  now,  and  since  Jane  went, 
the  tight  is  driving  you  crazy  —  can't  you  see,  John  ?  " 

The  son  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  then  he  said,  "  Oh, 
well,  mother,  that  was  all  right  in  that  day,  but  —  " 

44  John  Barclay,"  cried  the  mother  sternly,  as  she  leaned 
toward  him,  kkthe  faith  that  bore  your  father  a  martyr  to 
the  grave,  sustained  me  in  this  wilderness,  and  kept  me 
happy  as  I  scrubbed  for  your  bread,  shall  not  be  scoffed  in 
my  presence.  We  are  going  to  have  this  thing  out  to-night. 
I,  who  bore  you,  and  nursed  you,  and  fed  you,  and  staked 
my  soul  on  your  soul,  have  some  rights  to-night.  Here 
you  are,  fifty-four  years  old,  and  what  have  you  done  ? 
You've  killed  your  friend  and  your  friend's  father  before 
him  —  I  know  that,  John.  You've  wrecked  the  life  of  the 
sister  of  your  first  sweetheart,  and  put  fear  and  disgrace  in 
her  father's  face  forever — forever,  John  Barclay,  as  long 
as  he  lives.  I  know  that  too ;  I  haven't  been  wrapped 
in  pink  cotton  all  these  years,  boy  —  I've  lived  my  own 
life  since  you  left  my  wing,  and  made  my  own  way  too, 
as  far  as  that  goes.  And  now  you  are  trying  to  quench 
the  fires  of  remorse  in  your  soul  because  your  wife  died  a 
victim  of  your  selfish,  ruthless,  practical  scheme  of  things. 
More  than  that,  my  son  —  more  than  that,  your  child  is 
suffering  all  the  agony  that  a  woman  can  suffer  because 
of  your  devilish  system  of  traffic  in  blood  for  money. 
You  know  what  I  mean,  John.  That  boy  told  the  truth, 
as  you  admit,  and  he  could  either  run  or  lie,  and  for 
being  a  man  you  have  broken  up  a  God-sent  love  merely 
to  satisfy  your  own  vanity.  Oh,  John — John,"  she 


A   CERTAIN   RICH    MAN  395 

cried  passionately,  "my  poor,  blind,  foolish  boy — haven't 
you  found  the  ashes  in  the  core  of  your  faith  yet — aren't 
you  ready  to  quit  ?  " 

He  began,  "  Don't  you  think,  mother,  I  have  suffered  —  n 
"  Suffered,  boy  ?  Suffered  ?  Of  course  you  have  suf 
fered,  John,"  she  answered,  taking  his  hands  in  hers.  "I 
have  seen  the  furnace  fires  smoking  your  face,  and  I  know 
you  have  suffered,  Johnnie  ;  that's  why  I  am  corning  to 
you  —  to  ask  you  to  quit  suffering.  Look  at  it,  my  boy 
—  what  are  you  suffering  for  ?  Is  it  material  power  you 
want  ?  Well,  you  have  never  had  it.  The  people  are 
going  right  along  running  their  own  affairs  in  spite  of  you. 
All  your  nicely  built  card  houses  are  knocked  over.  In 
the  states  and  in  the  federal  government,  in  spite  of  your 
years  of  planning  and  piecing  out  your  little  practical 
system,  at  the  very  first  puff  of  God's  breath  it  goes  to 
pieces.  The  men  whom  you  bought  and  paid  for  don't 
stay  bought — do  they,  my  boy?  Oh,  your  old  mother 
knows,  John.  Men  who  will  sell  are  never  worth  buying  ; 
and  the  house  that  relies  on  them  falls.  You  have  built 
a  sand  dam,  son  —  like  the  dams  you  used  to  build  in  the 
spring  stream  when  you  were  a  child.  It  melts  under 
pressure  like  straw.  You  have  no  worldly  power.  In 
this  practical  world  you  are  a  failure,  and  good  old  Phil 
Ward,  who  went  out  into  the  field  and  scattered  seeds  of 
discontent  at  your  system  —  he  is  seeing  his  harvest  ripen 
in  his  old  age,  John,"  she  cried.  "  Can't  you  see  your 
failure  ?  Look  at  it  from  a  practical  standpoint  :  what 
thing  in  the  last  thirty  years  have  you  advocated,  and 
Philemon  Ward  opposed,  that  to-day  he  has  not  realized 
and  you  lost  ?  His  prescription  for  the  evils  may  have 
been  wrong  many  times,  but  his  diagnosis  of  them  was 
always  right,  and  they  are  being  cured,  in  spite  of  all 
your  protest  that  they  did  not  exist.  Which  of  you  has 
won  his  practical  fight  in  this  practical  world  —  his  God 
or  your  God  ;  the  ideal  world  or  the  material  world,  boy  ? 
Can't  you  see  it  ?  "  The  old  woman  leaned  forward  and 
looked  in  her  son's  dull,  unresponsive  face.  "  Can't  you 
see  how  you  have  failed  ?  "  she  pleaded. 


396  A   CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

They  rose  together  and  began  to  pace  the  long  floor  ot 
the  veranda.  "  Oh,  mother,"  he  cried,  as  he  put  his  arm 
about  her,  "I  am  so  lonely  —  so  tired,  so  sick  in  the  heart 
of  me." 

They  didn't  speak  for  a  time,  but  walked  together  in 
silence.  At  length  the  mother  began  again.  "  John,"  she 
said,  as  they  turned  at  the  end  of  the  porch,  "  I  suppose 
you  are  saying  that  you  have  your  money  —  that  it  is 
material  —  solid,  substantial,  and  undeniable.  But  is  it  ? 
Isn't  it  all  a  myth  ?  Leave  it  where  it  is  —  in  the  shape 
of  securities  and  stocks  and  credits  —  what  will  it  do? 
Will  it  bring  Jane  back  ?  Will  it  give  Jeanette  her  heart's 
desire,  and  make  her  happy  all  her  life  ?  You  know,  dear, 
that  it  will  only  make  me  miserable.  Has  it  made  you 
happy,  John  ?  Turn  it  into  gold  and  pile  it  up  in  the  front 
yard  —  and  what  will  it  buy  that  poor  Phil  Ward  has  not 
had  all  of  his  life — good  food,  good  clothing- — good  enough, 
at  least —  a  happy  family,  useful  children,  and  a  good  name  ? 
A  good  name,  John,  is  rather  to  be  chosen  than  great 
riches  —  than  all  your  money,  my  son  —  rather  to  be 
chosen  than  all  your  money.  Can  you  buy  that  with  your 
millions  piled  on  millions  ?  " 

They  were  walking  slowly  as  she  spoke,  and  they  turned 
into  the  terrace.  There  they  stood  looking  at  the  livid 
moon  sinking  behind  the  great  house. 

"  Is  there  more  joy  in  this  house  than  in  any  other  house 
in  town,  John  —  answer  me  squarely,  son  —  answer  me," 
she  cried.  He  shook  his  head  sadly  and  sighed.  "A 
mother,  whose  heart  bleeds  every  hour  as  she  sees  her  son 
torturing  himself  with  footless  remorse ;  that  is  one.  A 
heartbroken,  motherless  girl,  whose  lover  has  been  torn 
away  from  her  by  her  father's  vanity  and  her  own  pride, 
and  whose  mother  has  been  taken  as  a  pawn  in  the  game 
her  father  played  with  no  motive,  no  benefit,  nothing  but 
to  win  his  point  in  a  miserable  little  game  of  politics ;  that 
is  number  two.  And  a  man  who  should  be  young  for 
twenty  years  yet,  who  should  have  been  useful  for  thirty 
years  —  and  now  what  is  he  ?  powerless,  useless,  wretched, 
lonely,  who  spends  his  time  walking  about  fighting  against 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  397 

God,  that  he  may  prove  his  own  wisdom  and  nothing 
more." 

"  Mother,"  cried  Barclay,  petulantly,  "  I  can't  stand 
this  —  that  you  should  turn  on  me  —  now."  He  broke 
away  from  her,  and  stood  alone.  "  When  I  need  you  most, 
you  reproach  me.  When  I  need  sympathy,  you  scorn  all 
that  I  have  done.  You  can't  prove  your  God.  Why 
should  I  accept  Him  ?  " 

The  gaunt  old  woman  stretched  out  her  arms  and  cried  : 
"  Oh,  John  Barclay,  prove  your  god.  Tell  him  to  come 
and  give  you  a  moment's  happiness  —  set  him  to  work  to 
restore  your  good  name  ;  command  him  to  make  Jeanette 
happy.  These  things  my  God  can  do  1  Let  your  Mam 
mon,"  she  cried  with  all  the  passion  of  her  soul,  "  let  your 
Mammon  come  down  and  do  one  single  miracle  like  that." 
Her  voice  broke  and  she  sobbed.  "  What  a  tower  of  Ba 
bel —  an  industrial  Babel,  you  are  building,  John — you 
and  your  kith  and  kind.  The  last  century  gave  us  Scho- 
penhauers  and  Kants,  all  denying  God,  and  this  one  gives 
us  Railroad  Kings  and  Iron  Kings  and  Wheat  Kings,  all 
by  their  works  proclaiming  that  Mammon  has  the  power 
and  the  glory  and  the  Kingdom.  O  ye  workers  of  iniq^ 
uityl"  she  cried,  and  her  voice  lifted,  "ye  wicked  and 
perverse  —  " 

She  did  not  finish,  but  broken  and  trembling,  her  strength 
spent  and  her  faith  scorned,  she  sank  on  her  knees  by  a 
marble  urn  on  the  terrace  and  sobbed  and  prayed.  When 
she  rose,  the  dawn  was  breaking,  and  she  looked  for  a  mo 
ment  at  her  son,  who  had  been  sitting  near  her,  and  cried: 
"  Oh,  my  boy,  my  little  boy  that  I  nursed  at  my  breast  — — 
let  Him  in,  He  is  your  friend  —  and  oh,  my  God,  sustain 
my  faith  I" 

Her  son  came  to  her  side  and  led  her  into  the  house. 
But  he  went  to  his  room  and  began  the  weary  round,  bat 
tling  for  his  own  faith. 

As  he  stood  by  his  open  window  that  day  at  the  mill,  he 
saw  Molly  Brownwell  across  the  pond,  going  into  his  home. 
He  watched  her  idly  and  saw  Jeanette  meet  her  at  the 
door,  and  then  as  his  memory  went  back  to  the  old 


398  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

days,  he  tried  to  find  tears  for  the  woman  who  had  died, 
but  he  could  only  rack  his  soul.  Tears  were  denied  to 
him. 

He  was  a  rich  man  —  was  John  Barclay  ;  some  people 
thought  that,  taking  his  wealth  as  wealth  goes,  all  carefully 
invested  in  substantial  things  —  in  material  things,  let  us 
say — he  was  the  richest  man  in  the  Mississippi  Valley. 
He  bought  a  railroad  that  day  when  he  looked  through 
the  office  window  at  Molly  Brown  well  —  a  railroad  three 
thousand  miles  long.  And  he  bought  a  man's  soul  in  a 
distant  city  —  a  man  whom  he  did  not  know  even  by  name, 
but  the  soul  was  thrown  in  "to  boot"  in  a  bargain;  and 
he  bought  a  woman's  body  whose  face  he  had  never  seen, 
and  that  went  as  part  of  another  trade  he  was  making  and 
he  did  not  even  know  they  had  thrown  it  in.  And  he 
bought  a  child's  life,  and  he  bought  a  city's  prosperity  in 
another  bargain,  and  bought  the  homage  of  a  state,  and 
the  tribute  of  a  European  kingdom,  as  part  of  the  day's 
huckstering.  But  with  all  his  wealth  and  power,  he  could 
not  buy  one  tear  — •  not  one  little,  miserable  tear  to  moisten 
his  grief-dried  heart.  For  tears,  just  then,  were  a  trifle 
high.  So  Mr.  Barclay  had  to  do  without,  though  the  man 
whose  soul  he  bought  wept,  and  the  woman  whose  body 
came  with  a  trade,  sobbed,  and  the  dead  face  of  the,  child 
was  stained  with  a  score  of  tears. 

They  went  to  Jeanette  Barclay's  room,  —  the  gray- 
haired  woman  and  the  girl,  —  and  they  sat  there  talking 
for  a  time  —  talking  of  things  that  were  on  their  lips  and 
not  in  their  hearts.  Each  felt  that  the  other  understood 
her.  And  each  felt  that  something  was  to  be  said.  For 
one  day  before  the  end  Jeanette's  mother  had  said  to 
her:  "Jennie,  if  I  am  not  here  always  go  to  Molly  —  ask 
her  to  tell  you  about  her  girlhood."  The  mother  had  rested 
for  awhile,  and  then  added,  "Tell  her  I  said  for  you  to 
ask  her,  and  she'll  know  what  I  mean." 

"Jeanette,"  said  Molly  Brownwell,  "your  mother  and 
I  were  girls  together.  Your  father  saw  more  of  her  at 
our  house  than  he  did  at  her  own  home,  until  they  married. 
Did  you  know  that  ?  "  Jeanette  nodded  assent.  "  So  one 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  399 

day  last  June  she  said  to  me,  'Molly,  sometime  I  wish 
you  would  tell  Jennie  all  about  you  and  Bob.' " 

Mrs.  Brown  well  paused,  and  Jeanette  said,  "Yes,  mother 
told  me  to  ask  you  to,  Aunt  Molly."  Tears  came  into 
the  daughter's  eyes,  and  she  added,  "  I  think  she  knew 
even  then  that  —  " 

And  then  it  all  came  back,  and  after  a  while  the  elder 
woman  was  saying,  "  Well,  once  upon  a  time  there  lived  a 
princess,  my  dear.  All  good  stories  begin  so  —  don't  they  ? 
She  was  a  fat,  pudgy  little  princess  who  longed  to  grow 
up  and  have  hoop-skirts  like  a  real  sure-enough  woman 
princess,  and  there  came  along  a  tall  prince  —  the  tallest, 
handsomest  prince  in  all  the  wide  world,  I  think.  And 
he  and  the  princess  fell  in  love,  as  princesses  and  princes 
will,  you  know,  my  dear,  —  just  as  they  do  now,  I  am 
told.  And  the  prince  had  to  go  away  on  business  and  be 
gone  a  long,  long  time,  and  while  he  was  gone  the  father 
of  the  princess  and  the  friend  of  the  prince  got  into  trouble 
—  and  the  princess  thought  it  was  serious  trouble.  She 
thought  the  father  of  the  prince  would  have  to  go  to  jail 
and  maybe  the  prince  and  his  friend  fail.  My,  my,  Jean 
ette,  what  a  big  word  that  word  fail  seemed  to  the  little  fat 
princess  !  So  she  let  a  man  make  love  to  her  who  could 
lend  them  all  some  money  and  keep  the  father  out  of  jail 
and  the  prince  and  his  friend  from  the  awful  fate  of  failure. 
So  the  man  lent  the  money  and  made  love,  and  made  love. ' 
And  the  little  princess  had  to  listen ;  every  one  seemed  to 
like  to  have  her  listen,  so  she  listened  and  she  listened, 
and  she  was  a  weak  little  princess.  She  knew  she  had 
wronged  the  prince  by  letting  the  man  make  love  to  her, 
and  her  soul  was  smudged  and  —  oh,  Jeanette,  she  was 
such  a  foolish,  weak,  miserable  little  princess,  and  they 
didn't  tell  her  that  there  is  only  one  prince  for  every  prin 
cess,  and  one  princess  for  every  prince  —  so  she  took  the 
man,  and  sent  away  the  prince,  and  the  man  made  love 
ever  so  beautifully  —  but  it  was  not  the  real  thing,  my 
dear,  —  not  the  real  thing.  And  afterwards  when  she 
saw  the  prince  —  so  young  and  so  strong  and  so  handsome, 
her  heart  burned  for  him  as  with  a  flame,  and  she  was  not 


400  A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

ashamed;  the  wicked,  wicked  princess,  she  didn't  know. 
And  so  they  walked  together  one  night  right  up  to  the 
brink  of  the  bad  place,  dearie  —  right  up  to  the  brink; 
and  the  princess  shuddered  back,  and  saved  the  prince. 
Oh,  Jeanette,  Jeanette,  Jeanette,"  sobbed  the  woman,  in 
the  girl's  arms,  "right  in  this  room,  in  this  very  room, 
which  was  your  mother's  room  in  the  old  house,  I  came 
out  of  the  night,  as  bad  a  woman  as  God  ever  sent  away 
from  Him.  And  your  mother  and  I  cried  it  out,  and 
talked  it  out,  and  I  fought  it  out,  and  won.  Oh,  I  won, 
Jeanette  —  I  won  ! " 

The  two  women  were  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  the 
elder  went  on  :  "  That's  what  your  mother  wished  you  to 
know  —  that  for  every  princess  there  is  just  one  real 
prince,  and  for  every  prince  there  is  just  one  real  prin 
cess,  my  dear,  and  when  you  have  found  him,  and  know 
he  is  true,  nothing  —  not  money,  not  friends,  not  father 
nor  mother  —  when  he  is  honest,  not  even  pride  —  should 
stand  between  you.  That  is  what  your  mother  sent  you, 
dearie.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,  Aunt  Molly  —  I  think  so,"  repeated  the 
girl.  She  looked  out  of  the  window  for  a  moment,  and 
then  cried,  "  Oh,  Aunt  Molly  —  but  I  can't,  I  can't.  How 
could  he,  Aunt  Molly — how  could  he?"  The  girl  buried 
her  face  in  the  woman's  lap,  and  sobbed. 

After  a  time  the  elder  woman  spoke.  "  You  know  he 
loves  you,  don't  you,  dear?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head  and  cried,  "But  how  could 
he  ?  "  and  repeated  it  again  and  again. 

"  And  you  still  love  him  —  I  know  that,  my  dear,  or 
you  could  not  —  you  would  not  care,  either,"  she  added. 

And  so  after  a  time  the  tears  dried,  as  tears  will,  and 
the  two  women  fell  back  into  the  pale  world  of  surfaces, 
and  as  Molly  Brownwell  left  she  took  the  girl's  hand  and 
said :  "  You  won't  forget  about  the  little  pudgy  princess 
—  the  dear,  foolish,  little  weak  princess,  will  you,  Jean 
ette  ?  And,  dearie,"  she  added  as  she  stood  on  the  lower 
steps  of  the  porch,  "  don't  —  don't  always  be  so  proud  — 
liot  about  that,  my  dear  —  about  everything  else  in  the 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  401 

world,  but  not  about  that."  And  so  she  went  back  into 
the  world,  and  ceased  to  be  a  fairy  godmother,  and  took 
up  her  day's  work. 

John  Barclay  went  to  the  City  that  night  for  the  first 
time  in  two  months,  and  Jeanette  and  her  Grandmother 
Barclay  kept  the  big  house  alone.  In  ten  days  he  came 
back ;  his  face  was  still  hard,  and  the  red  rims  around  his 
eyes  were  dry,  and  his  voice  was  sullen,  as  it  had  been  for 
many  weeks.  His  soul  was  still  wrestling  with  a  spirit 
that  would  not  give  up  the  fight.  That  night  his  daughter 
tried  to  sit  with  him,  as  she  had  tried  many  nights  before. 
They  sat  looking  at  the  stars  in  silence  as  was  their  wont. 
Generally  the  father  had  risen  and  walked  away,  but  that 
night  he  turned  upon  her  and  said:  — 

"Jeanette,  don't  you  like  to  be  rich?  I  guess  you  are 
the  richest  girl  in  this  country.  Doesn't  that  sound  good 
to  you?" 

"No,  father,"  she  answered  simply,  and  continued, 
"  What  can  I  do  with  all  that  money  ?  " 

"  Marry  some  man  who's  got  sense  enough  to  double  it, 
and  double  it,"  cried  Barclay,  harshly.  "  Then  there'll  be 
no  question  but  that  you'll  be  the  richest  people  in  the 
world." 

"  And  then  what  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"Then — then,"  he  cried,  "make  the  people  in  this 
world  stand  around — that's  what." 

"  But,  father,"  she  said  as  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
"  what  if  I  don't  want  them  to  stand  around  ?  Why 
should  I  have  to  bother  about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  he  groaned,  "  your  grandmother  has  been  filling 
you  full  of  nonsense."  He  did  not  speak  for  a  time,  and 
at  length  she  rose  to  go  to  bed.  "Jeanette,"  he  cried  so 
suddenly  that  it  startled  her,  "  are  you  still  moping  after 
Neal  Ward?  Do  you  love  him?  Do  you  want  me  to  go 
and  get  him  for  you  ?  " 

The  girl  stood  by  her  father's  chair  a  moment  and  then 
answered  colourlessly :  "  No,  father,  I  don't  want  you  to 
get  him  for  me.  I  am  not  moping  for  him,  as  you  call 
it." 

2D 


402  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Her  desolate  tone  reached  some  chord  in  his  very  hearty 
for  he  caught  her  hand,  and  put  it  to  his  cheek  and  said 
softly,  "But  she  loves  him  —  my  poor  little  girl  loves 
him?" 

She  tried  to  pull  away  her  hand  and  replied,  in  the  same 
dead  voice:  "  Oh,  well  —  that  doesn't  matter  much,  I  sup 
pose.  It's  all  over  —  so  far  as  I  am  concerned/'  She 
turned  to  leave  him,  and  he  cried:  — 

"  My  dear,  my  dear —  why  don't  you  go  to  him  ?  n 

She  stopped  a  moment  and  looked  at  her  father,  and 
even  in  the  starlight  she  could  see  his  hard  mouth  and  hi 
ruthless  jaw.  Then  she  cried  out,  "Oh,  father,  I  can't  — 
I  can't — "  After  a  moment  she  turned  and  looked  at 
him,  and  asked,  "Would  you?  Would  you?  "  and  walked 
into  tho  house  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

The  father  sat  crumpled  up  in  his  chair,  listening  to  the 
flames  crackling  in  his  heart.  The  old  negation  was  fight 
ing  for  its  own,  and  he  was  weary  and  broken  and  sick  as 
with  a  palsy  of  the  soul.  For  everything  in  him  trembled. 
There  was  no  solid  ground  under  him.  He  had  visited 
his  material  kingdom  in  the  City,  and  had  seen  its  strong 
fortresses  and  had  tried  all  of  its  locks  and  doors,  and 
found  them  firm  and  fast.  But  they  did  not  satisfy  his 
soul;  something  within  him  kept  mocking  them;  refus 
ing  to  be  awed  by  their  power,  and  the  eternal  "yes" 
rushed  through  his  reason  like  a  great  wind. 

As  he  sat  there,  suddenly,  as  from  some  power  outside, 
John  Barclay  felt  a  creaking  of  his  resisting  timbers,  and 
he  quit  the  struggle.  His  heart  was  lead  in  his  breast, 
and  he  walked  through  the  house  to  his  pipe  organ,  that 
had  stood  silent  in  the  hall  for  nearly  a  year.  He  stood 
hesitatingly  before  it  for  a  second,  and  then  wearily  lay 
him  down  to  rest,  on  a  couch  beside  it,  where,  when  he  had 
played  the  last  time,  Jane  lay  and  listened.  He  was  tired 
past  all  telling,  but  his  soul  was  relaxed.  He  lay  there 
for  hours  —  until  the  tall  clock  above  his  head  chimed  two. 
He  could  not  sleep,  but  his  consciousness  was  inert  and  his 
mind  seemed  limp  and  empty,  as  one  who  has  worked  past 
his  limit.  The  hymn  that  the  clock  chimed  through  the 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  403 

quarter  hours  repeated  itself  over  and  over  again  without 
meaning  in  his  brain.  Something  aroused  him ;  he  started 
up  suddenly,  and  lying  half  on  his  elbow  and  half  on  his 
side  he  stared  about  him,  and  was  conscious  of  a  great 
light  in  the  room :  it  was  as  though  there  was  a  fire  near  by 
and  he  was  alarmed,  but  he  could  not  move.  As  he  looked 
into  space,  terrified  by  the  paralysis  that  held  him,  he  saw 
across  the  face  of  the  organ,  "  Righteousness  exalteth  a 
Nation,  but  sin  is  a  reproach  to  any  people." 

Quick  as  a  flash  his  mind  went  back  to  the  time  that 
same  motto  stared  meaninglessly  at  him  from  above  the 
pulpit  in  the  chapel  at  West  Point,  to  which  he  had  been 
appointed  official  visitor  at  Commencement  many  years 
before.  But  that  night  as  he  gazed  at  the  text  its  mean 
ing  came  rushing  through  his  brain.  It  came  so  quickly 
that  he  could  not  will  it  back  nor  reason  it  in.  Righteous 
ness,  he  knew,  was  not  piety  —  not  wearing  your  Sunday 
clothes  to  church  and  praying  and  singing  psalms ;  it  was 
living  honestly  and  kindly  and  charitably  and  dealing 
decently  with  every  one  in  every  transaction ;  and  sin  — 
that,  he  knew  —  was  the  cheating,  the  deceiving,  and  the 
malicious  greed  that  had  built  up  his  company  and  scores 
of  others  like  it  all  over  the  land.  That,  he  knew  —  that 
bribery  and  corruption  and  vicarious  stealing  which  he  had 
learned  to  know  as  business  —  that  was  a  reproach  to  any 
people,  and  as  it  came  to  him  that  he  was  a  miserable 
offender  and  that  the  other  life,  the  decent  life,  was  the 
right  life,  he  was  filled  with  a  joy  that  he  could  not  ex 
press,  and  he  let  the  light  fail  about  him  unheeded,  and 
lay  for  a  time  in  a  transport  of  happiness.  He  had  found 
the  secret. 

The  truth  had  come  to  him  —  to  him  first  of  all  men, 
and  it  was  his  to  tell.  The  joy  of  it  —  that  he  should 
find  out  what  righteousness  was  —  that  it  was  not  crying 
"  Lord,  Lord  "  and  playing  the  hypocrite  —  thrilled  him. 
And  then  the  sense  of  his  sinning  came  over  him,  but 
only  with  joy  too,  because  he  felt  he  could  show  others 
how  foolish  they  were.  The  clock  stopped  ticking ;  the 
chimes  were  silent,  and  he  lay  unconscious  of  his  body, 


404  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

with  his  spirit  bathed  in  some  new  essence  that  he  did 
not  understand  and  did  not  try  to  understand.  Finally 
he  rose  and  went  to  his  organ  and  turned  on  the  motor, 
and  put  his  hands  to  the  keys.  As  he  played  the  hymn 
to  the  "  Evening  Star,"  John  Barclay  looked  up  and  saw 
his  mother  standing  upon  the  stair  with  her  fine  old  face 
bathed  in  tears.  And  then  at  last  — 

Tears?  Tears  for  Mr.  Barclay?  All  these  months  there 
have  been  no  tears  for  him  —  none,  except  miserable  little 
corroding  tears  of  rage  and  shame.  But  now  there  are 
tears  for  Mr.  Barclay,  large,  man's  size,  soul-healing  tears 
—  tears  of  repentance;  not  for  the  rich  Mr.  Barclay,  the 
proud  Mr.  Barclay,  the  powerful,  man-hating,  God-defying 
Mr.  Barclay  of  Sycamore  Ridge,  but  for  John  Barclay,  a 
contrite  man,  the  humblest  in  all  the  kingdom. 

And  as  John  Barclay  let  his  soul  rise  with  the  swelling 
music,  he  felt  the  solace  of  a  great  peace  in  his  heart;  he 
turned  his  wet  face  upward  and  cried,  "  Oh,  mother, 
mother,  I  feel  like  a  child  I  "  Then  Mary  Barclay  knew 
that  her  son  had  let  Him  in,  knew  in  her  own  heart  all 
the  joy  there  is  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth* 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IT  is  written  in  the  Book  that  holds  the  wisdom  of  our 
race  that  one  who  is  reborn  into  the  Kingdom  of  God, 
enters  as  a  little  child.  It  is  there  in  black  and  white, 
yet  few  people  get  the  idea  into  their  consciousnesses. 
They  expect  regeneration  to  produce  an  upright  man. 
God  knows  better  than  that.  And  we  should  know  bet 
ter  too  when  it  is  written  down  for  us.  And  so  you 
good  people  who  expect  to  see  John  Barclay  turn  right 
about  face  on  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  are  to  be  disap 
pointed.  For  a  little  child  stumbles  and  falls  and  goes 
the  wrong  way  many  times  before  it  learns  the  way  of 
life.  There  came  days  after  that  summer  night  of  1904, 
when  John  Barclay  fell  —  days  when  he  would  sneak  into 
the  stenographers'  room  in  his  office  in  the  City  and  tear 
up  some  letter  he  had  dictated,  when  he  would  send  a 
telegram  annulling  an  order,  when  he  would  find  himself 
cheating  and  gouging  his  competitors  or  his  business 
associates,  —  even  days  when  he  had  not  the  moral  cour 
age  to  retrace  his  steps  although  he  knew  he  was  wrong. 
Shame  put  her  brand  on  his  heart,  and  his  face  showed 
to  those  who  watched  it  closely  —  and  there  were  scores 
of  fellow-gamblers  at  the  game  with  him,  whose  profits 
came  from  watching  his  face  —  his  face  showed  forth  un 
certainty  and  daze.  So  men  said,  "  The  old  man's  off:  his 
feed,"  or  others  said,  "Barclay's  losing  his  nerve";  and 
still  others  said,  "  Can  it  be  possible  that  the  old  hypocrite 
is  getting  a  sort  of  belated  conscience?  " 

But  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  the  child  within  him  grew ; 
he  gripped  his  soul  with  the  iron  hand  of  will  that  had 
made  a  man  of  him,  and  when  the  child  fell  and  ached 
with  shame,  Barclay's  will  sustained  the  weakling.  We 

405 


406  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

are  so  hidden  by  our  masks  that  this  struggle  in  the  man's 
soul,  though  guessed  at  by  some  of  those  about  him,  was 
unknown  to  the  hundreds  who  saw  him  every  day.  But 
for  him  the  universe  had  changed.  And  as  a  child, 
amazed,  he  looked  upon  the  new  wonder  of  God's  order 
about  him  and  went  tripping  and  stumbling  and  toppling 
over  awkwardly  through  it  all  as  one  learning  some  new 
equilibrium.  There  were  times  when  his  heart  grew  sick, 
and  he  would  have  given  it  all  up.  There  were  hours 
when  he  did  surrender  ;  when  he  did  a  mean  thing  and 
gloried  in  it,  or  a  cowardly  thing  and  apologized  for  it. 
But  his  will  rose  and  turned  him  back  to  his  resolve.  He 
found  the  big  things  easy,  and  the  little  things  hard  to  do. 
So  he  kept  at  the  big  things  until  they  had  pushed  him  so 
far  toward  his  goal  that  the  little  things  were  details  which 
he  repaired  slowly  and  with  anguish  of  humiliation  in 
secret,  and  unknown  even  to  those  who  were  nearest  to 
him. 

And  all  this  struggle  was  behind  the  hard  face,  under  the 
broad,  high  forehead,  back  of  the  mean  jaw,  beneath  the 
cover  of  the  sharp  brazen  eyes.  Even  in  Sycamore  Ridge 
they  did  not  suspect  the  truth  until  Barclay  had  grown  so 
strong  in  his  new  faith  that  he  could  look  at  his  yester 
days  without  shuddering. 

The  year  of  our  Lord  nineteen  hundred  and  six  was  a 
slow  year  politically  in  Sycamore  Ridge,  so  in  the  parliament 
at  McHurdie's  shop  discussion  took  somewhat  wider  range 
than  was  usual.  It  may  interest  metaphysicians  in  the 
world  at  large  to  know  that  the  McHurdie  parliament 
that  August  definitely  decided  that  this  is  not  a  material 
world  ;  that  sensation  is  a  delusion,  that  the  whole  phan 
tasmagoria  of  the  outer  and  material  world  is  a  reaction 
of  some  sort  upon  the  individual  consciousness.  Up  to 
this  point  the  matter  is  settled,  and  metaphysicians  may 
as  well  make  a  record  of  the  decision  ;  for  Watts  McHurdie, 
Jacob  Dolan,  Philemon  Ward,  Martin  Culpepper,  and 
sometimes  Oscar  Fernald,  know  just  exactly  as  much 
about  it  as  the  ablest  logician  in  the  world.  It  is,  how 
ever,  regrettable  that  after  deciding  that  the  external 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  407 

world  is  but  a  divine  reaction  upon  the  individual  con 
sciousness,  the  parliament  was  unable  to  reach  any  sort  of 
a  decision  as  to  whose  consciousness  received  the  picture. 
Mr.  Dolan  maintained  vigorously  that  his  consciousness 
was  the  one  actually  affected,  and  that  the  colonel  and  the 
general  and  Watts  were  mere  hallucinations  of  his.  The 
general  held  that  Jake  and  the  others  were  accessory 
phantasms  of  his  own  dream,  and  Watts  and  the  colonel, 
being  of  more  poetical  temperament,  held  that  the  whole 
outfit  was  a  chimera  in  some  larger  consciousness,  whose 
entity  it  is  not  given  us  to  know.  As  for  Oscar,  he 
claimed  the  parliament  was  crazy,  and  started  to  prove  it, 
when  it  was  thought  best  to  shift  and  modify  the  discus 
sion  ;  and,  therefore,  early  in  September,  when  the  upper 
currents  of  the  national  atmosphere  were  vocal  with  dis 
cordant  allegations,  denials,  accusations,  and  maledictions, 
in  Watts  McHurdie's  shop  the  question  before  the  house 
was,  "  How  many  people  are  there  in  the  world  ?  "  For 
ten  days,  in  the  desultory  debate  that  had  droned  through 
the  summer,  the  general,  true  to  his  former  contention,  in 
sisted  that  there  was  only  one  person  in  the  world.  Mr. 
Dolan,  with  the  Celtic  elasticity  of  reason,  was  willing  to 
admit  two. 

"  You  and  me  and  no  more  —  all  the  rest  is  background 
for  us,"  he  proclaimed.  "  If  the  you  of  the  moment  is  the 
colonel  —  well  and  good;  then  the  colonel  and  I  for  it; 
but  if  it  is  the  general  and  I  —  to  the  trees  with  your 
colonel  and  Watts,  and  the  three  billion  others  —  you're 
merely  stage  setting,  and  become  third  persons." 

"But,"  asked  McIIurdie,  "if  I  exist  this  minute  with 
you,  and  then  you  focus  your  attention  on  Mart  there,  the 
next  minute,  and  he  exists,  what  becomes  of  me  when  you 
turn  your  head  from  me  ?  " 

Dolan  did  not  answer.  He  dipped  into  the  Times  and 
read  awhile,  and  the  colonel  and  the  general  got  out  the 
checkerboard  and  plunged  into  a  silent  game.  At 
length  Dolan,  after  the  fashion  of  debaters  in  the  parlia 
ment,  came  out  of  his  newspaper  and  said:  — 

"  That,  Mr.  McHurdie,  is  a  problem  ranging  off  the  sub 


408  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

ject,  into  the  theories  of  the  essence  of  time  and  space,  and 
I  refuse  to  answer  it." 

McHurdie  kept  on  working,  and  the  hands  of  the  clock 
slipped  around  nearly  an  hour.  Then  the  bell  tinkled 
and  Neal  Ward  came  in  on  his  afternoon  round  for  news 
to  print  in  the  next  day's  issue  of  the  Banner. 

"  Anything  new  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Dorman  is  putting  new  awnings  on  the  rear  win 
dows  of  her  store  —  did  you  get  that  ?  "  asked  McHurdie. 

The  young  man  made  a  note  of  the  fact. 

"  Yes,"  added  Dolan,  "and  you  may  just  say  that  Hon. 
Jacob  Dolan,  former  sheriff  of  Garrison  County,  and  a 
member  of  '  C '  Company,  well  known  in  this  community, 
who  has  been  custodian  of  public  buildings  and  grounds 
in  and  for  Garrison  County,  state  of  Kansas,  ss.,  is 
contemplating  resigning  his  position  and  removing  to  the 
National  Soldiers'  Home  at  Leavenworth  for  the  future." 

Young  Ward  smiled,  but  did  not  take  the  item  down  in 
his  note-book. 

"  It  isn't  time  yet,"  he  said. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Dolan. 

"  Only  two  months  and  a  half  since  I  printed  that  the 
last  time.  It  can't  go  oftener  than  four  times  a  year, 
and  it's  been  in  twice  this  year.  Late  in  December  will 
time  it  about  right." 

"  What's  the  news  with  you,  boy  ?  "  asked  Dolan. 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  man,  pausing  carefully  as  if  to 
make  a  selection  from  a  large  and  tempting  assortment, 
but  really  swinging  his  arms  for  a  long  jump  into  the 
heart  of  the  matter  in  his  mind,  "have  you  heard  that 
John  Barclay  has  given  the  town  his  pipe  organ  ?  " 

"  You  don't  say  1  "  exclaimed  McHurdie. 

"  Tired  of  it  ?  "  asked  Dolan,  as  though  twenty-five- 
thousand-dollar  pipe  organs  were  raining  in  the  town  every 
few  days. 

"  It'll  not  be  that,  Jake,"  said  Watts.  "  John  is  no  man 
to  tire  of  things." 

"  No,  it's  not  that,  Mr.  Dolan,"  answered  Neal  Ward. 
"  He  has  sent  word  to  the  mayor  and  council  that  he  is 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  409 

going  to  have  the  organ  installed  in  Barclay  Hall  this 
week  at  his  own  expense,  and  he  accompanied  the  letter 
with  fifty  thousand  dollars  in  securities  to  hire  a  perma 
nent  organist  and  a  band-master  for  the  band  ;  and  a  band 
concert  and  an  organ  concert  will  alternate  in  the  hall 
every  week  during  the  year.  I  gather  from  reading  his 
letter  that  Mr.  Barclay  believes  the  organ  will  do  more 
good  in  the  hall  than  in  his  house." 

The  general  and  the  colonel  kept  on  at  their  game. 
Dolan  whistled,  and  Watts  nodded  his  head.  "  That's 
what  I  would  say  he  did  it  for,"  said  McHurdie. 

"Are  the  securities  N.P.C.  stock?"  asked  Dolan,  ten 
tatively. 

"  No,"  replied  Neal ;  "  I  saw  them  ;  they  are  municipal 
bonds  of  one  sort  and  another." 

"  Well,  well  —  Johnnie  at  the  mill  certainly  is  popping 
open  like  a  chestnut  bur.  Generally  when  he  has  some 
scheme  on  to  buy  public  sentiment  he  endows  something 
with  N.P.C.  stock,  so  that  in  case  of  a  lawsuit  against 
the  company  he'd  have  the  people  interested  in  protect 
ing  the  stock.  This  new  tack  is  certainly  queer  doings. 
Certainly  queer  doings  for  the  dusty  miller  1  "  repeated 
Dolan. 

"Well,  it's  like  his  buying  the  waterworks  of  Bemis 
last  month,,  and  that  land  at  the  new  pumping  station, 
and  giving  the  council  money  to  build  the  new  dam  and 
power-house.  He  had  no  rebate  or  take  back  in  that  — 
at  least  no  one  can  see  it,"  said  the  young  man. 

"Nellie  says,"  put  in  Watts,  "that  she  heard  from  Mrs. 
Fernald,  who  got  it  from  her  girl,  who  got  it  from  the  girl 
who  works  in  the  Hub  restaurant,  who  had  it  from  Mrs. 
Carnine's  girl  —  so  it  come  pretty  straight  —  that  Lige 
made  John  pay  a  pretty  penny  for  the  waterworks,  and 
they  had  a  great  row  because  John  would  give  up  the  fight." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dolan,  "  it  come  to  me  from  one  of  the 
nigger  prisoners  in  the  jail,  who  has  a  friend  who  sweeps 
out  Gabe's  bank,  that  he  heard  John  and  Lige  dickering, 
and  that  Lige  held  John  up  for  a  hundred  thousand  cold 
dollars  for  his  bargain." 


410  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

"  The  Associated  Press  to-day,"  said  young  Ward,  "  has 
a  story  to  the  effect  that  there  is  a  great  boom  in  certain 
railroad  stocks  owing  to  some  secret  operations  of  Mr. 
Barclay.  They  don't  know  what  he  is  doing,  but  things 
are  pretty  shaky.  He  refuses  to  make  a  statement." 

"  He's  a  queer  canny  little  man,"  explained  Watts. 
"  You  never  know  where  he'll  break  out  next." 

"Well,  he's  up  to  some  devilment,"  exclaimed  Dolan; 
"  you  can  depend  on  that.  Why  do  you  suppose  he's  lay 
ing  off  the  hands  at  the  strip  factory  ?  " 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "  Give  it  up.  I  asked 
Mr.  Mason  and  the  best  I  could  get  out  of  him  was  a 
parrot-like  statement  that  'owing  to  the  oversupply  of  our 
commodity,  we  have  decided  to  close  operations  for  the 
present.  We  have,  therefore,'  he  said  pompously,  'given 
each  of  our  employees  unable  to  find  immediate  work  here, 
a  ticket  for  himself  and  family  to  any  point  in  the  United 
States  to  which  he  may  desire  to  go,  and  have  agreed  to 
pay  the  freight  on  his  household  goods  also.'  That  was 
every  word  I  could  get  out  of  him  —  and  you  know  Mr. 
Mason  is  pretty  talkative  sometimes." 

"  Queer  doings  for  the  dusty  miller,"  repeated  Dolan. 

The  group  by  the  bench  heard  the  slap  of  the  checker 
board  on  its  shelf,  and  General  Ward  cut  into  the  conver 
sation  as  one  who  had  never  been  out  of  it.  "  The  boy's 
got  good  blood  in  him;  it  will  come  out  some  day — he 
wasn't  made  a  Thatcher  and  a  Barclay  and  a  Winthrop 
for  nothing.  Lizzie  was  over  there  the  other  night  for 
tea  with  them,  and  she  said  she  hadn't  seen  John  so  much 
like  himself  for  years." 

Young  Ward  went  about  his  afternoon's  work  and  the 
parliament  continued  its  debate  on  miscellaneous  public 
business.  The  general  pulled  the  Times  from  Dolan's 
pocket  and  began  turning  it  over.  He  stopped  and  read 
for  a  few  moments  and  exclaimed:  — 

"  Boys  —  see  here.  Maybe  this  explains  something  we 
were  talking  about."  He  began  reading  a  news  item  sent 
out  from  Washington,  D.C.  The  item  stated  that  the 
Department  of  Commerce  and  Labour  had  scored  what 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  411 

every  one  in  official  circles  believed  was  the  most  impor 
tant  victory  ever  achieved  by  the  government  outside  of  a 
war.  The  item  continued:  — 

"Within  the  last  ten  days,  the  head  of  one  of  the  largest  so-called 
trusts  in  this  country  called  at  the  department,  and  explained  that  his 
organization,  which  controls  a  great  staple  commodity,  was  going  into 
voluntary  liquidation.  The  organization  in  question  has  been  the 
subject  of  governmental  investigation  for  nearly  two  years,  and  inves- 
tigators  were  constantly  hampered  and  annoyed  by  attempts  of  politi 
cians  of  the  very  highest  caste,  outside  of  the  White  House,  trying  to 
get  inspectors  removed  or  discredited,  and  all  along  the  line  of  its  in 
vestigations  the  government  has  felt  a  powerful  secret  influence 
shielding  the  trust.  As  an  evidence  of  his  good  faith  in  the  disorgan 
ization,  the  head  of  the  trust,  while  he  was  here,  promised  to  send  to 
the  White  House,  what  he  called  his  *  political  burglar's  kit,'  consisting 
of  a  card  index,  labelling  and  ticketing  with  elaborate  cross  references 
and  cabinet  data,  every  man  in  the  United  States  who  is  in  politics 
far  enough  to  get  to  his  state  legislature,  or  to  be  a  nominee  of  his 
party  for  county  attorney.  This  outfit,  shipped  in  a  score  of  great 
boxes,  was  dumped  at  the  White  House  to-day,  and  it  is  said  that  a 
number  of  the  cards  indicating  the  reputation  of  certain  so-called 
conservative  senators  and  congressmen  may  be  framed.  There  is  a 
great  hubbub  in  Washington,  and  the  newspaper  correspondents  who 
called  at  the  White  House  on  their  morning  rounds  were  regaled  by  a 
confidential  glimpse  into  the  cards  and  the  cabinets.  It  is  likely  that 
the  whole  outfit  will  be  filed  in  the  Department  of  Commerce  and 
Labour,  and  will  constitute  the  basis  of  what  is  called  around  the  White 
House  to-day,  a  *  National  Rogues*  Gallery.'  The  complete  details  of 
every  senatorial  election  held  in  the  country  during  twelve  years  last 
past,  showing  how  to  reach  any  Senator  susceptible  to  any  influence 
whatsoever,  whether  political,  social,  or  religious,  are  among  the  tro 
phies  of  the  chase  in  the  hands  of  the  Mighty  Hunter  for  Big  Game 
to-day." 

When  General  Ward  had  finished  reading,  he  lifted  up 
his  glasses  and  said:  "Well,  that's  it,  boys;  John  has  come 
to  his  turn  of  the  road.  Here's  the  rest.  It  says:  'The 
corporation  in  question  is  practically  controlled  by  one 
man,  the  man  who  has  placed  the  information  above  men 
tioned  in  the  hands  of  the  government.  It  is  a  corpora 
tion  owning  no  physical  property  whatever,  and  ia 
organized  as  a  rebate  hopper,  if  one  may  so  style  it.  The 
head  of  the  corporation  stated  when  he  was  here  recently 
that  he  is  preparing  to  buy  in  every  share  of  the  company's 
stock  at  the  price  for  which  it  was  sold  and  then  — '  Jake, 


412  A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

where  is  page  3  with  the  rest  of  this  article  on  it  ?"  asked 
the  general. 

"  Why,  I  threw  that  away  coming  down  here,"  responded 
Dolan. 

"Rather  leaves  us  in  the  air  —  doesn't  it?"  suggested 
the  colonel. 

44  Well,  it's  John.  I  know  enough  to  know  that  —  from 
Neal,"  said  the  general. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  shining  in  the  south  window  of 
the  shop.  Dolan  started  to  go.  In  the  doorway  McHurdie 
halted  him. 

"  Jake,"  he  cried,  pointing  a  lean,  smutty  finger  at  Dolan, 
44  Jake  Dolan,  if  there  are  only  two  people  in  the  world, 
what  becomes  of  me  when  you  begin  talking  to  Mart  ?  If 
you  knew,  you  would  not  dodge.  In  philosophy  no  man 
can  stand  on  his  constitutional  rights.  Turn  state's  evi 
dence,  Jake  Dolan,  and  tell  the  truth  —  what  becomes  of 
me?" 

"'Tis  an  improper  question,"  replied  Dolan,  and  then 
drawing  himself  up  and  pulling  down  the  front  of  his  coat, 
he  added,  "  'Tis  not  a  matter  that  may  be  discussed  among 
gentlemen,"  and  with  that  he  disappeared. 

The  front  door-bell  tinkled,  and  the  parliament  prepared 
to  adjourn.  The  colonel  helped  the  poet  close  his  store 
and  bring  in  the  wooden  horse  from  the  sidewalk,  and  then 
Molly  Brownwell  came  with  her  phaeton  and  drove  the 
two  old  men  home.  On  the  way  up  Main  Street  they 
overhauled  Neal  Ward.  Mrs.  Brownwell  turned  in  to  the 
sidewalk  and  called,  "Neal,  can  you  run  over  to  the 
house  a  moment  this  evening  ?  "  And  when  he  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  she  let  the  old  nag  amble  gently  up  the 
street. 

"  How  pretty  you  are,  Aunt  Molly,"  exclaimed  Neal,  as 
the  gray-haired  woman  who  could  still  wear  a  red  ribbon 
came  into  the  room  where  he  sat  waiting  for  her.  The 
boy's  compliment  pleased  her,  and  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
say  so.  But  after  that  she  plunged  into  the  subject  that 
was  uppermost  in  her  heart. 

44  Neal,"  she  said,  as  she  drew  her  chair  in  front  of  him 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  413 

so  that  she  could  see  his  face  and  know  the  truth,  no  mat 
ter  what  his  lips  might  say,  "  we're  partners  now,  aren't 
we,  or  what  amounts  to  the  same  thing  ? "  She  smiled 
good-naturedly.  "I  own  the  overdraft  at  the  bank  and 
you  own  the  mortgage  at  the  court-house.  So  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  a  plain  question;  and  if  you  say  it  isn't 
any  of  my  business,  I'll  attempt  to  show  you  that  it  is. 
Neal,"  she  asked,  looking  earnestly  into  his  face,  "why 
do  you  write  to  Jeanette  Barclay  every  day  of  your  life 
and  not  mail  the  letters  ?  " 

The  youth  flushed.  "Why  — Aunt  Molly  — how  did 
you  know  ?  —  I  never  told  —  " 

"  No,  Neal,  you  never  told  me  ;  but  this  afternoon  while 
you  were  out  I  was  looking  for  Adrian's  check-book ;  I 
was  sure  we  paid  Dorman's  bill  last  April,  and  that  I  took 
the  check  over  myself.  I  was  going  through  the  desk, 
and  I  got  on  your  side,  thinking  I  might  have  left  the 
check- book  there  by  mistake,  and  I  ran  into  the  very 
midst  of  those  letters,  before  I  knew  what  I  was  about. 
Now,  Neal  —  why  ?  " 

The  young  man  gazed  at  the  woman  seriously  for  a  time 
and  then  parried  her  question  with,  "  Why  do  you  care  — 
what  difference  can  it  make  to  you,  Aunt  Molly?" 

"  Because,"  she  answered  quickly,  "  because  I  wish  to 
see  my  partner  happy.  He  will  do  better  work  so  —  if 
you  desire  to  put  it  on  a  cold-blooded  basis.  Oh,  Nealie, 
Nealie  —  do  you  love  her  that  much  —  that  you  take  your 
heart  and  your  life  to  her  without  hope  or  without  sign  or 
answer  every  day?" 

He  dropped  his  eyes,  and  turned  his  face  away.  "  Not 
every  day,"  he  answered,  "  not  every  day  —  but  every 
night,  Aunt  Molly." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  her,  Neal,  and  tell  her?"  asked 
the  woman.  "  Is  it  so  hopeless  as  that?" 

"  Oh,  there  are  many  reasons  —  why  I  don't  go  to  her," 
he  replied.  After  a  minute's  silence  he  went  on  :  "  In  the 
first  place  she  is  a  very  rich  girl,  and  that  makes  a  differ 
ence  —  now.  When  she  was  just  a  young  girl  of  eighteen, 
or  such  a  matter,  and  I  only  twenty  or  twenty-one,  we  met 


414  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

so  naturally,  and  it  all  came  out  so  beautifully !  But  we 
are  older  now,  Aunt  Molly,"  he  said  sadly,  "and  it's 
different." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Mrs.  Brown  well,  "  it  is  different  now 
—  you  are  right  about  it." 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  repeating  a  patter  which  he  had 
said  to  himself  a  thousand  times.  "  Yes,  —  and  then 
I  can't  say  I'm  sorry  —  for  I'm  not.  I'd  do  it  again. 
And  I  know  how  Mr.  Barclay  feels ;  he  didn't  leave  me 
in  any  doubt  about  that,"  smiled  the  boy,  "  when  I  left 
his  office  that  morning  after  telling  him  what  I  was  going 
to  do.  So,"  he  sighed  and  smiled  in  rather  hopeless  good 
humour,  "  I  can't  see  my  way  out.  Can  you  ?  " 

Molly  Brown  well  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  closed 
her  eyes  for  a  minute,  and  then  shook  her  head,  and  said, 
"  No,  Neal,  net  now ;  but  there  is  a  way  — •  somehow  —  I 
am  sure  of  that." 

He  laughed  for  want  of  any  words  to  express  his  hope 
lessness,  and  the  two  —  the  youth  in  despair,  and  the 
woman  full  of  hope  —  sat  in  silence. 

"  Neal,"  she  asked  finally,  "  what  do  you  put  in  those 
letters  ?  Why  do  you  write  them  at  all  ?  " 

The  young  man  with  his  eyes  upon  the  floor  began, 
"Well  —  they're  just  letters,  Aunt  Molly  —  just  letters — • 
such  as  I  used  to  write  before — don't  you  know."  His  voice 
was  dull  and  passionless,  and  he  went  on :  "I  can't  tell 
you  more  about  them.  They're  just  letters."  He  drew 
in  a  quick  long  breath  and  exclaimed:  "  Oh,  you  know 
what  they  are  —  I  want  to  talk  to  some  one  and  I'm  going 
to.  Oh,  Aunt  Molly,"  he  cried,  "I'm  not  heart-broken, 
and  all  that — I'm  infinitely  happy.  Because  I  still  hold 
it  —  it  doesn't  die.  Don't  you  see  ?  And  I  know  that 
always  it  will  be  with  me  —  whatever  may  come  to  her. 
I  don't  want  to  forget  —  and  it  is  my  only  joy  in  the 
matter,  that  I  never  will  forget.  I  can  be  happy  this  way  ; 
I  don't  want  to  give  any  other  woman  a  warmed-over 
heart,  for  this  would  always  be  there  —  I  know  it  —  and 
so  I  am  just  going  to  keep  it."  He  dropped  his  voice 
again  after  a  sigh,  and  went  on:  "There,  that's  all  there 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  415 

is  to  it.     Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool  ?  "  he  asked,  as  the  colour 
came  into  his  face. 

"  No,  Neal, '  I  don't,"  said  Molly  Brown  well,  as  she 
stood  beside  him.  uYou  are  a  brave,  manly  fellow,  Neal, 
and  I  wish  I  could  help  you.  I  don't  see  how  now  —  but 
the  way  will  come — sometime.  Now,"  she  added,  "tell 
me  about  the  paper." 

And  then  they  went  into  business  matters  which  do  not 
concern  us ;  for  in  this  story  business  conjures  up  the 
face  of  John  Barclay  —  the  tanned,  hard  face  of  John 
Barclay,  crackled  with  a  hundred  wrinkles  about  the 
eyes,  and  scarred  with  hard  lines  about  the  furtive  crafty 
mouth  ;  and  we  do  not  wish  to  see  that  face  now ;  it 
should  be  hidden  while  the  new  soul  that  is  rising  in  his 
body  struggles  with  that  tough,  bronzed  rind,  gets  a 
focus  from  the  heart  into  those  glaring  brass  eyes,  and 
teaches  the  lying  lips  to  speak  the  truth,  and  having 
spoken  it  to  look  it.  And  so  while  John  Barclay  in  the 
City  is  daily  slipping  millions  of  his  railroad  bonds  into 
the  market,  —  slipping  them  in  quietly  yet  steadily  withal, 
mixing  them  into  the  daily  commerce  of  the  country,  so 
gently  that  they  are  absorbed  before  any  one  knows  they 
have  left  his  long  grasping  fingers,  —  while  he  is  trading 
to  his  heart's  content,  let  us  forget  him,  and  look  at  this 
young  man,  that  September  night,  after  he  left  Molly 
Brownwell,  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  office  with  the  tele 
phone  at  his  elbow,  with  the  smell  of  the  ink  from  the 
presses  in  his  nostrils,  with  the  silence  of  the  deserted 
office  becalming  his  soul,  and  with  his  heart  —  a  clean, 
strong,  manly  heart  —  full  of  the  picture  of  a  woman's 
face,  and  the  vision  without  a  hope.  In  his  brain  are 
recorded  a  thousand  pictures,  and  millions  of  little  fibres 
run  all  over  this  brain,  conjuring  up  those  pictures,  and 
if  there  are  blue  eyes  in  the  pictures,  and  lips  in  the 
pictures,  and  the  pressure  of  hands,  and  the  touch  of  souls 
in  the  pictures, —  they  are  Neal  Ward's  pictures,  —  they 
are  Mr.  Higgin's  pictures,  and  Mrs.  Wiggin's  pictures, 
and  Mr.  Stiggin's  pictures,  my  dears,  and  alack  and  alas, 
they  are  the  pictures  of  Miss  Jones  and  Miss  Lewis  and 


416  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Miss  Thomas  and  Miss  Smith,  for  that  matter  ;  and  so,  my 
dears,  if  we  would  be  happy  we  should  be  careful  even  if 
we  can't  be  good,  for  it  is  all  for  eternity,  and  whatever 
courts  may  say,  and  whatever  churches  may  say,  and  what 
ever  comes  back  with  rings  and  letters  and  trinkets,  — 
there  is  no  divorce,  and  the  pictures  always  stay  in  the 
heart,  and  the  sum  of  the  pictures  is  life. 

So  that  September  night  Neal  Ward  went  back  over  the 
old  trail  as  lovers  always  will,  and  then  his  pen  began  to 
write.  Now  in  the  nature  of  things  the  first  three  words 
are  not  for  our  eyes,  and  to-night  we  must  not  see  the  first 
three  lines  nor  the  first  thirty,  nor  the  last  three  words  nor 
the  last  three  lines  nor  the  last  thirty  lines.  But  we  may 
watch  him  write;  we  may  observe  how  longingly  he  looks 
at  the  telephone,  as  if  tempted  to  go  to  it,  and  tell  it 
what  is  in  his  breast.  There  it  sits,  all  shiny  and  metallic; 
and  by  conjuring  it  with  a  number  and  a  word,  he  could 
have  her  with  him.  Yet  he  does  not  take  it  up;  because 
• —  the  crazy  loon  thinks  in  the  soul  of  him,  that  what  he 
writes,  some  way,  in  the  great  unknown  system  of  receivers 
and  recorders  and  transmitters  of  thought  that  range 
through  this  universe,  is  pouring  into  her  heart,  and  so  he 
writes  and  smiles,  and  smiles  and  writes  —  no  bigger  fool 
than  half  the  other  lovers  on  the  planet  who,  talking  to 
their  sweethearts,  holding  their  hands  and  looking  squarely 
into  their  eyes,  deceive  themselves  that  what  they  say  is 
going  to  the  heart,  and  not  going  in  one  ear  and  out  of 
the  other. 

And  now  let  us  put  on  our  seven-league  boots  and  walk 
from  September's  green  and  brown,  through  October's  gold 
and  crimson,  into  that  season  of  the  year  1906  when  Na 
ture  is  shifting  her  scenery,  making  ready  for  the  great 
spring  show.  lib  is  bleak,  but  not  cold;  barren,  but  not 
ugly,  —  for  the  stage  setting  of  the  hills  and  woods  and 
streams,  even  without  the  coloured  wings  and  flies  and  the 
painted  trees  and  grass,  has  its  fine  simplicity  of  form  and 
grouping  that  are  good  to  look  upon.  Observe  in  the 
picture  a  small  man  sitting  on  a  log  in  a  wood,  looking  at 
the  stencil  work  of  the  brown  and  gray  branches,  as  ita 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  417 

shadows  waver  and  shimmer  upon  the  gray  earth.  He  is 
poking  reflectively  in  the  earth  with  his  cane.  His  boat 
is  tied  to  some  tree  roots,  and  he  doesn't  breathe  as  regularly 
as  a  man  should  breathe  who  is  merely  thinking  of  his  next 
dinner  or  his  last  dollar.  He  delves  into  himself  and  al 
most  forgets  to  breathe  at  all,  so  deep  is  his  abstraction. 
And  so  he  sits  for  five  minutes — ten  minutes — half  an 
hour  —  and  save  that  he  edges  into  the  sun  as  the  shadow 
of  the  great  walnut  tree  above  catches  him,  an  hour  passes 
and  he  does  not  move.  Poking,  poking,  poking  his 
stick  into  the  mould,  he  has  dug  up  much  litter  in  an  hour, 
and  he  has  seen  his  whole  life  thrown  up  before  him.  In 
those  leaves  yonder  is  a  battle  —  a  bloody  battle,  and 
things  are  blistered  into  his  boyish  heart  in  that  battle 
that  never  heal  over;  that  tuft  of  sod  is  a  girl's  face  —  a 
little  girl's  face  that  he  loved  as  a  boy;  there  is  his  first 
lawsuit — that  ragged  pile  of  leaves  by  the  twig  at  the 
log's  end;  and  the  twig  is  his  first  ten  thousand  dollars. 
All  of  it  lies  there  before  him,  his  victories  and  his  defeats, 
his  millions  come,  and  his  millions  going  —  going? — yes, 
all  but  gone.  Yonder  that  deep  gash  in  the  sod  at  the 
left  hides  a  woman's  face  —  pale,  wasted,  dead  on  her  pil 
low;  and  that  clean  black  streak  on  the  ebony  cane — 
that  is  a  tear,  and  in  t,  *e  tear  is  a  girl's  face  and  back  of 
hers  shimmers  a  boy's  countenance.  All  of  John  Barclay's 
life  and  hopes  and  dreams  and  visions  are  spread  out  be 
fore  him  on  the  ground.  So  he  closes  his  eyes,  and  braces 
his  soul,  and  then,  having  risen,  whistles  as  he  limps  lightly 

—  for  a  man  past  fifty  —  down  to  the  boat.     He  rows  with 
a  clean  manly  stroke  —  even  in  an  old  flat-bottomed  boat 

—  through  the  hazy  sunset  into  the  dusk. 

"  Jeanette,"  he  said  to  his  daughter  that  evening  at  din 
ner,  "  I  wish  you  would  go  to  the  phone,  pretty  soon,  and 
tell  Molly  Culpepper  that  I  want  her  to  come  down  this 
evening.  I  am  anxious  to  see  her.  The  colonel  isn't  at 
home,  or  I'd  have  him,  mother,"  explained  Mr.  Barclay. 

And  that  is  why  Miss  Barclay  called,  "876,  please  — 
yes,  8-7-6;"  and  then  said:  "Hello  —  hello,  is  this  876? 
Yes  —  is  Mrs.  Brown  well  in  ?  Oh,  all  right."  And  then, 

2jt 


418  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

"54,  please ;  yes,  5-4.  Is  this  you,  Aunt  Molly?  Father  is 
in  town  —  he  came  in  this  morning  and  has  spent  the  after 
noon  on  the  river,  and  he  told  me  at  dinner  to  ask  you  if 
you  could  run  down  this  evening.  Oh,  any  time.  I  didn't 
know  you  worked  nights  at  the  office.  Oh,  is  Mr.  Ward 
out  of  town?  —  I  didn't  know.  All  right,  then  —  about 
eight  o'clock  —  we'll  look  for  you." 

And  that  is  why  at  the  other  end  of  the  telephone,  a 
pretty,  gray -haired  woman  stood,  and  looked,  and  looked, 
and  looked  at  a  plain  walnut  desk,  as  though  it  was 
enchanted,  and  then  slipped  guiltily  over  to  that  black 
walnut  desk,  unlocked  a  drawer,  and  pulled  out  a  whole 
apronful  of  letters. 

And  so  the  reader  may  know  what  Molly  Brownwell 
had  in  that  package  which  she  put  in  the  buggy  seat  beside 
her  when  she  drove  down  to  see  the  Barclays,  that  beauti 
ful  starry  November  night.  She  put  the  package  with 
her  hat  and  wraps  in  Jeanette's  room,  and  then  came  down 
to  the  living  room  where  John  Barclay  sat  by  the  roaring 
fire  in  the  wide  fireplace,  with  a  bundle  beside  him  also. 
His  mother  was  there,  and  his  daughter  took  a  seat  beside 
him.  . 

"  Molly,"  said  Barclay,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  I  sent  for  you, 
first,  because,  of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  it  is  but  just 
that  you  should  be  here,  to  witness  what  I  am  doing ;  and 
second,  because  Jane  would  have  had  you,  and  I  want  you 
to  be  with  Jeanette  when  I  tell  her  some  things  that  she 
must  know  to-night  —  she  and  mother." 

He  was  sitting  in  a  deep  easy  chair,  with  one  foot  — • 
not  his  lame  foot —  curled  under  him,  a  wiry-looking  little 
gray  cat  of  a  man  who  nervously  drummed  on  the  mahogany 
chair  arm,  or  kept  running  his  hands  over  the  carving,  or 
folding  and  unfolding  them,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  in 
cessantly  as  he  talked.  He  smiled  as  he  began  :  — 

"  Well,  girls,  father  got  off  the  chair  car  at  Sycamore 
Ridge  this  morning,  after  having  had  the  best  sleep  he  ha« 
had  in  twenty  years." 

He  paused  for  the  effect  of  his  declaration  to  sink  in- 
Jeanette  asked,  "  Where  was  the  car  ?  " 


A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN  410 

"  What  car  ?  "  teased  the  little  gray  cat. 

"  Why,  our  car  ?  ' ' 

"  My  dear,  we  have  no  car,"  he  smiled,  with  the  cream 
of  mystery  on  his  lips.  Then  he  licked  it  off.  "I  sold 
the  car  three  weeks  ago,  when  I  left  the  Ridge  the  last 
time."  He  dropped  into  an  eloquent  silence,  and  then 
went  on :  "I  rode  in  the  chair  car  to  save  three  dollars. 
I  need  it  in  my  business." 

His  mother's  blue  eyes  were  watching  him  closely.  She 
exclaimed,  "  John,  quit  your  foolishness.  What  have  you 
done  ?  " 

He  laughed  as  he  said :  "  Mother,  I  have  returned  to 
you  poor  but  honest.  My  total  assets  at  this  minute  are 
seventy-five  million  dollars'  worth  of  stock  of  the  National 
Provisions  Company,  tied  up  in  this  bundle  on  the  floor 
here,  and  five  thousand  dollars  in  the  Exchange  National 
Bank  of  Sycamore  Ridge  which  I  have  held  for  thirty 
years.  I  sold  my  State  Bank  stock  last  Monday  to  Gabe 
Carnine.  I  have  thirty-four  dollars  and  seventy-three 
cents  in  my  pocket-book,  and  that  is  all." 

The  women  were  puzzled,  and  their  faces  showed  it, 
So  the  little  gray  cat  made  short  work  of  the  mice. 

"  Well,  now,  to  be  brief  and  plain,"  said  Barclay,  pulling 
himself  forward  in  his  chair  and  thrusting  out  an  arm  and 
hand,  as  if  to  grip  the  attention  of  his  hearers,  "  I  have 
always  owned  or  directly  controlled  over  half  the  N.P.C. 
stock  —  representing  a  big  pile  of  money.  I  am  trying 
to  forget  how  much,  and  you  don't  care.  But  it  was  only 
part  of  my  holdings  —  about  half  or  such  a  matter,  I  should 
say.  The  rest  were  railroad  bonds  on  roads  necessary  to 
the  company,  mortgages  on  mills  and  elevators  whose  stock 
was  merged  in  the  company,  and  all  sorts  of  gilt-edged 
stuff,  bank  stock  and  insurance  company  stock — all  needed 
to  make  N.P.C.  a  dominant  factor  in  the  commercial  life 
of  the  country.  You  don't  care  about  that,  but  it  was  all 
a  sort  of  commercial  blackmail  on  certain  fellows  and 
interests  to  keep  them  from  fighting  N.P.C."  Barclay 
hitched  himself  forward  to  the  edge  of  his  chair,  and  still 
held  out  his  grappling-hook  of  a  hand  to  hold  them  as  he 


420  A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

smiled  and  went  on :  "  Well,  I've  been  kind  of  swapping 
horses  here  for  six  months  or  so  —  trading  my  gilt-edged 
bonds  and  stuff  for  cash  and  buying  up  N.P.C.  stock. 
I  got  a  lot  of  it  quietly  —  an  awful  lot."  He  grinned. 
"  I  guess  that  was  square  enough.  I  paid  the  price  for  it 

—  and  a  little  better  than  the  price  —  because  I  had  to." 
He  was  silent  a  few  moments,  looking  at  the  fire.     He 
meditated  pleasantly:  "There  was  some  good  in  it — a 
lot  of  good  when  you  come  to  think  of  it  —  but  a  fearful 
lot  of  bad!     Well  —  I've  saved  the  good.     I  just  reorgan 
ized  the  whole  concern  from  top  to  bottom  —  the  whole 
blame  rebate  hopper.     We  had  some  patents,  and  we  had 
some  contracts  with  mills,  and  we  had  some  good  ideas  of 
organization.     And  I've  kept  the  good  and  chucked  the 
bad.     I   put   N.P.C.  out     of  business   and   have   issued 
stock  in  the  new  company  to  our  minority  whose  stock  I 
couldn't   buy  and  have  squeezed  the  water  out   of  the 
whole  concern.     And  then  I  took  what  balance  I  had  left 

—  every  cent  of  it,  went  over  the  books  for  thirty  years, 
and  made  what  restitution  I  could."     He  grinned  as  he 
added:  "But  I  found  it  was  nearly  whittlety  whet.     A 
lot  of  fellows  had  been  doing  me  up,  while  I  had  been 
doing  others  up.     But  I  made  what  restitution  I  could 
and  then  I   got  out.     I  closed  up  the   City  office,  and 
moved  the  whole  concern  to  St.  Paul,  and  turned  it  over 
to  the  real  owners  —  the  millers  and  elevator  men  —  and 
I  have  organized  an  industry  with  a  capitalization  small 
enough  to  make  it  possible  for  them  to  afford  to  be  honest 
for  thirty  years  —  while  our  patents  and  contracts  last, 
anyway."     He  put  an  elbow  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
and  the  knuckles  on  his  knee  as  he  sat  cross-legged,  and 
drawled  :  "  I  wonder  if  it  will  work — "  and  repeated:  "  I 
wonder,  I  wonder.     There's  big  money  in  it ;  she's  a  dead 
monopoly  as  she  stands,  and  they  have  the  key  to  the 
whole  thing  in  the  Commerce  Department  at  Washing 
ton.     They   can   keep   her    straight   if    they   will."     He 
paused  for  a  while  and  went  on:   "But  I'm  tired  of  it. 
The  great  hulk  of  a  thing  has  ground  the  soul  out  of  me. 
So  I  ducked.     Girls,"  he  cried,  as  he  turned  toward  them, 


A  CERTAIN   RICH  MAN  421 

44  here's  the  way  it  is ;  I  never  did  any  real  good  with 
money.  I'm  going  to  see  what  a  man  can  do  to  help  his 
fellows  with  his  bare  hands.  I  want  to  help,  not  with 
money,  but  just  to  be  some  account  on  earth  without 
money.  And  so  yesterday  I  cleaned  up  the  whole  deal 
forever." 

He  paused  to  let  it  sink  in.  Finally  Jeanette  asked, 
"  And  are  we  poor,  father  —  poor  ?  " 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  expanded,  "your  grandmother 
Barclay  has  always  owned  this  house.  An  Omaha  syndi 
cate  owns  the  mill.  I  own  $ 5,000  in  bank  stock,  and  the 
boy  who  marries  you  for  your  money  right  now  is  going 
to  get  badly  left." 

"  You  aren't  fooling  me,  are  you,  John  ? "  asked  his 
mother  as  she  rose  from  her  chair. 

44  No,  mother,"  answered  the  son,  "  I've  got  rid  of  every 
dirty  dollar  I  have  on  earth.  The  bank  stock  I  bought 
with  the  money  the  Citizens'  Committee  subscribed  to 
pay  me  for  winning  the  county-seat  lawsuit.  As  near  as 
I  can  figure  it  out,  that  was  about  the  last  clean  money  I 
ever  earned." 

The  mother  walked  toward  her  son,  and  leaned  over 
and  kissed  him  again  and  again  as  she  sobbed  :  "  Oh,  John, 
I  am  so  happy  to-night  —  so  happy." 

In  a  moment  he  asked,  "  Well,  Jeanette,  what  do  you 
think  of  it  ?  " 

44  You  know  what  I  think,  father  —  you  know  very  well, 
don't  you  ?  " 

He  sighed  and  nodded  his  head.  Then  he  reached  for 
the  package  on  the  floor  and  began  cutting  the  strings. 
The  bundle  burst  open  and  the  stock  of  the  National  Pro 
visions  Company,  issued  only  in  fifty-thousand-dollar  and 
one-hundred-thousand-dollar  shares,  littered  the  floor. 

44  Now,"  cried  Barclay,  as  he  stood  looking  at  the  litter, 
44  now,  Molly,  here's  what  I  want  you  to  do  :  Burn  it  up  — 
burn  it  up,"  he  cried.  "  It  has  burned  the  joy  out  of  your 
life,  Molly  —  burn  it  up  I  I  have  fought  it  all  out  to-day 
on  the  river — but  I  can't  quite  do  that.  Burn  it  up  — 
for  God's  sake,  Molly,  burn  it  up." 


422  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

When  the  white  ashes  had  risen  up  the  chimney,  he  put 
on  another  log.  "  This  is  our  last  extravagance  for  some 
time,  girls  —  but  we'll  celebrate  to-night,"  he  cried.  "  You 
haven't  a  little  elderberry  wine,  have  you,  mother  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  Riley  says  that's  the  stuff  for  little  boys  with 
curvature  of  the  spine  —  and  I'll  tell  you  it  put  several 
kinks  in  mine  to  watch  that  burn." 

And  so  they  sat  for  an  hour  talking  of  old  times  while 
the  fire  burned.  But  Molly  Brownwell's  mind  was  not  in 
the  performance  that  John  Barclay  had  staged.  She  could 
see  nothing  but  the  package  lying  on  her  cloak  in  the  girl's 
room  upstairs.  So  she  rose  to  go  early,  and  the  circle 
broke  when  she  left  it.  She  and  Jeanette  left  John  stand 
ing  with  his  arms  about  his  mother,  patting  her  back  while 
she  wept. 

As  she  closed  the  door  of  Jeanette's  room  behind  her, 
Molly  Brownwell  knew  that  she  must  speak.  "  Jeanette," 
she  said,  "I  don't  know  just  how  to  say  it,  dear;  but,  I  stole 
those  —  I  mean  what  is  in  that  package  —  I  took  it  and 
Neal  doesn't  know  I  have  it.  It's  for  you,"  she  cried,  as 
she  broke  the  string  that  tied  it,  and  tore  off  the  wrapping. 

The  girl  stared  at  her  and  asked:  "Why,  Aunt  Molly — • 
what  is  it  ?  I  don't  understand." 

The  woman  in  pulling  her  wrap  from  the  chair,  tumbled 
the  letters  to  the  floor.  She  slipped  into  her  cloak  and 
kissed  the  bewildered  girl,  and  said  as  she  stood  in  the 
doorway:  "  There  they  are,  my  dear- — they  are  yours;  do 
what  you  please  with  them." 

She  hurried  down  the  stairs,  and  finding  John  sitting 
alone  before  the  fire  in  the  sitting  room,  would  have 
bidden  him  good  night  as  she  passed  through  the  room, 
but  he  stopped  her. 

"  There  is  one  thing  more,  Molly,"  he  said,  as  he 
motioned  to  a  chair. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  wondered  if  you  had  forgotten 
it!" 

He  worried  the  fire,  and  renewed  the  blaze,  before  he 
spoke.  "  What  about  Neal  —  how  does  he  feel  ?  " 

"  John,"  replied  the  woman,  turning  upon  him  a  radiant 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  423 

face,  "  it  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world  —  that 
boy's  love  for  Jennie!  Why,  every  night  after  his  work 
is  done,  sitting  there  in  the  office  alone,  Neal  writes  her  a 
letter,  that  he  never  mails;  just  takes  his  heart  to  her, 
John.  I  found  a  great  stack  of  them  in  his  desk  the  other 
day." 

Barclay's  face  crinkled  in  a  spasm  of  pain,  and  he  ex 
claimed,  "  Poor  little  kids  — poor,  poor  children." 

"John  — "  Molly  Brownwell  hesitated,  and  then  took 
courage  and  cried:  "Won't  you — won't  you  for  Ellen's 
sake?  It  is  like  that — like  you  and  Ellen.  And,"  she 
stammered,  "  oh,  John,  I  do  want  to  see  one  such  love  affair 
end  happily  before  I  die." 

Barclay's  hard  jaw  trembled,  and  his  eyes  were  wet  as 
he  rose  and  limped  across  the  great  room.  At  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  he  called  up,  "  Don't  bother  with  the  phone, 
Jeanette,  I'm  going  to  use  it."  He  explained,  "  The  branch 
in  her  room  rings  when  we  use  this  one,"  and  then  asked, 
"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  —  at  home  or  at  the  office  ?  " 

"  If  the  ten  o'clock  train  is  in,  he's  at  the  office.  If  not, 
he's  not  in  town." 

But  Barclay  went  to  the  hall,  and  when  he  returned  he 
said,  "  Well,  I  got  him;  he'll  be  right  out." 

Molly  was  standing  by  the  fire.  "  What  are  you  going  to 
say,  John  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  There'll  be  enough  for  me  to  say,  I 
suppose,"  he  replied,  as  he  looked  at  the  floor. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  they  stood  for  a  minute 
looking  back  into  their  lives.  They  walked  together 
toward  the  door,  but  at  the  threshold  their  eyes  met  and 
each  saw  tears,  and  they  parted  without  words. 

Neal  Ward  found  Barclay  prodding  the  fire,  and  the 
gray  little  man,  red-faced  from  his  task,  limped  toward  the 
tall,  handsome  youth,  and  led  him  to  a  chair.  Barclay 
stood  for  a  time  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  his  head 
down,  and  in  the  silence  he  seemed  to  try  to  speak  several 
times  before  the  right  words  came.  Then  he  exclaimed: 

"Neal,  I  was  wrong  —  dead  wrong  —  and  I've  been  too 
proud  and  mean  all  this  time — -to  say  so." 


424  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

Neal  stared  open-eyed  at  Barclay  and  moistened  his  lips 
before  language  came  to  him.  Finally  he  said  :  "  Well, 
Mr.  Barclay — that's  all  right.  I  never  blamed  you.  You 
needn't  have  bothered  about —  that  is,  to  tell  me." 

Barclay  gazed  at  the  young  man  abstractedly  for  a  min 
ute  that  seemed  interminable,  and  then  broke  out,  "  Damn 
it,  Neal,  I  can't  propose  to  you  —  but  that's  about  what 
I've  got  you  out  here  to-night  for." 

He  laughed  nervously,  but  the  young  face  showed  his  ob- 
tuseness,  and  John  Barclay  having  broken  the  ice  in  his 
own  heart  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  threw  back  his 
head  and  roared,  and  then  cried  merrily  :  "  All  we  need 
now  is  a  chorus  in  fluffy  skirts  and  an  orchestra  with  me 
coming  down  in  front  singing,  '  Will  you  be  my  son-in- 
law  ?  '  for  it  to  be  real  comic  opera." 

The  young  man's  heart  gave  such  a  bound  of  joy  that  it 
flashed  in  his  face,  and  the  father,  seeing  it,  was  thrilled 
with  happiness.  So  he  limped  over  to  Neal's  chair  and 
stood  beaming  down  upon  the  embarrassed  young  fellow. 

"  But,  Mr.  Barclay  —  "  the  boy  found  voice,  "  I  don't 
know  —  the  money  —  it  bothers  ma." 

And  John  Barclay  again  threw  his  head  back  and  roared, 
and  then  they  talked  it  all  out.  He  told  Neal  the  story 
of  his  year's  work.  It  was  midnight  when  they  heard  the 
telephone  ringing,  and  Barclay,  curled  up  like  an  old  gray 
cat  in  his  chair  before  the  fire,  said  for  old  times'  sake, 
"  Neal,  go  see  who  is  ringing  up  at  this  unholy  hour." 

And  while  Neal  Ward  steps  to  the  telephone,  let  us  go 
upstairs  on  one  last  journey  with  our  astral  bodies  and 
discover  what  Jeanette  is  doing.  After  Molly's  departure, 
Jeanette  stooped  to  pick  up  what  Molly  had  left.  She 
saw  her  own  name,  "  Jeanette  Barclay,"  and  her  address 
written  on  an  envelope.  She  picked  it  up.  It  was  dated  : 
u  Written  December  28,"  and  she  saw  that  the  package 
was  filled  with  letters  in  envelopes  similarly  addressed  in 
Neal  Ward's  handwriting.  She  dropped  the  letter  on  her 
dressing-table  and  began  to  undo  her  hair.  In  a  few  min 
utes  she  stopped  and  picked  up  another,  and  laid  it  down 
unopened.  But  in  half  an  hour  she  was  sitting  on  the 


A  CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  425 

floor  reading  the  letters  through  her  tears.  The  flood  of 
joy  that  came  over  her  drowned  her  pride.  For  an  hour 
she  sat  reading  the  letters,  and  they  brought  her  so  near 
to  her  lover  that  it  seemed  that  she  must  reach  out  and 
touch  him.  She  was  drawn  by  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
her  telephone  that  sat  on  her  desk.  It  seemed  crazy  to 
expect  to  reach  Neal  Ward  at  midnight,  but  as  she  rose 
from  the  floor  with  the  letters  slipping  from  her  lap  and 
with  the  impulse  like  a  cord  drawing  her,  she  saw,  or 
thought  she  saw,  standing  by  the  desk,  a  part  of  the  flutter 
ing  shadows,  a  girl  —  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  girl  in  her 
teens,  with — but  then  she  remembered  the  dream  girl  her 
lover  had  described  in  the  letter  she  had  just  been  reading, 
and  she  understood  the  source  of  her  delusion.  And  yet 
there  the  vision  moved  by  the  telephone,  smiling  and 
beckoning  ;  then  it  faded,  and  there  came  rushing  back  to 
her  memory  a  host  of  recollections  of  her  childhood,  and 
of  some  one  she  could  not  place,  and  then  a  memory  of 
danger,  —  and  then  it  was  all  gone  and  there  stood  the 
desk  and  the  telephone  and  the  room  as  it  was. 

She  shuddered  slightly,  and  then  remembered  that  she 
had  just  been  through  two  great  nervous  experiences  —  the 
story  of  her  father's  changed  life,  and  the  return  of  her 
lover.  And  she  was  a  level-headed,  strong-nerved  girl. 
So  the  joy  of  love  in  her  heart  was  not  dampened,  and  the 
cord  drawing  her  to  the  desk  in  the  window  did  not  loosen, 
and  she  did  not  resist.  With  a  gulp  of  nervous  fear  she 
rang  the  telephone  bell  and  called,  u  54,  please  !  "  She 
heard  a  buzzing,  and  then  a  faint  stir  in  the  receiver,  and 
then  she  got  the  answer.  She  sat  a-tremble,  afraid  to 
reply.  The  call  was  repeated  in  her  ear,  and  then  she 
said  so  faintly  that  she  could  not  believe  it  would  be 
heard,  "  Oh,  Neal  —  Neal  —  I  have  come  back." 

The  young  man  standing  in  the  dimly  lighted  hall  was 
startled.  He  cried,  "  Is  it  really  you,  Jeanette  —  is  it 
you?  " 

And  then  stronger  than  before  the  voice  said,  "Yes, 
Neal,  it  is  I  —  I  have  come  back !  " 

"  Oh,  Jeanette  —  Jeanette,"  he  cried. 


426  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

But  she  stopped  him  with,  "We  must  not  talk  any  more 
—  now,  don't  you  know  —  but  I  had  to  tell  you  that  I 
had  come  back,  Neal."  And  then  she  said,  "  Good  night." 
So  there  they  stood,  the  only  two  people  in  the  universe, 
reunited  lovers,  each  with  the  voice  of  the  other  sounding 
in  his  ears.  For  Mr.  Dolan  was  right.  There  are  only 
two  people  in  the  world,  and  for  these  two  lovers  earth 
and  the  stars  and  the  systems  of  suns  that  make  up  this 
universe  were  only  background  for  the  play  of  their 
happiness. 

As  Neal  Ward  came  back  to  John  Barclay  from  the 
telephone,  the  young  man's  face  was  burning  with  joy, 

"  Who  was  it  ?  "  asked  Barclay. 

The  youth  smiled  bashfully  as  he  said,  "  Well,  it  was 
Jeanette  —  she  was  calling  up  another  number  and  I  cut 
in." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  her  father. 

"Oh,  nothing  —  in  particular,"  replied  Neal. 

Barclay  looked  up  quickly,  caught  the  young  man's 
abashed  smile,  and  asked,  "  Does  she  know  you're  here  ?  " 

"No,  she  thinks  I'm  at  the  office." 

Barclay  rose  from  his  chair,  and  limped  across  the  room, 
calling  back  as  he  mounted  the  stair,  "  Wait  a  minute." 

It  was  more  than  a  minute  that  Neal  Ward  stood  by  the 
fire  waiting. 

And  now,  gentle  people,  observe  the  leader  of  the  or 
chestra  fumbling  with  his  music.  There  is  a  faint  stir 
among  the  musicians  under  the  footlights.  And  you,  too, 
are  getting  restless ;  you  are  feeling  for  your  hat  instinc 
tively,  and  you  for  your  hat-pins,  and  you  for  your  rub 
bers,  while  Neal  Ward  stands  there  waiting,  and  the  great 
clock  ticks  in  the  long  silence.  There  is  a  rustle  on  the 
stairs,  at  the  right,  and  do  you  see  that  foot  peeping  down, 
that  skirt,  that  slender  girlish  figure  coming  down,  that 
young  face  tear-stained,  happy,  laughing  and  sobbing, 
with  the  arms  outstretched  as  she  nears  the  last  turn  of 
the  stairs?  And  the  lover  —  he  has  started  toward  her. 
The  orchestra  leader  is  standing  up.  And  the  youth, 
with  God's  holiest  glory  in  his  face,  has  almost  reached 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  427 

Aer.  And  there  for  an  instant  stand  Neal  and  Jeanette, 
mingling  tears  in  their  kisses,  for  the  curtain,  the  miser 
able,  unemotional,  awkward  curtain  —  it  has  stuck,  and 
so  they  must  stand  apart,  hand  in  hand,  devouring  each 
other's  faces  a  moment,  and  then  as  the  curtain  falls,  we 
see  four  feet  close  together  again,  and  then  —  and  then 
the  world  comes  in  upon  us,  and  we  smile  and  sigh,  and 
sigh  and  smile,  for  the  journey  of  those  four  feet  is 
ended,  the  story  is  done. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

BEING  SOMEWHAT  IN  THE  NATURE  OF  AN  EPILOGUE 

AND  now  that  the  performance  is  finished  and  the  cur- 
tain  has  been  rung  down,  we  desire  to  thank  you,  one  and 
all,  for  your  kind  attention,  and  to  express  the  hope  that  in 
this  highly  moral  show  you  may  have  found  some  pleasure 
as  well  as  profit.  But  though  the  play  is  ended,  and  you 
are  already  reaching  for  your  hats  and  coats,  the  lights  are 
still  dim;  and  as  you  see  a  great  white  square  of  light 
appear  against  the  curtain,  you  know  that  the  entertain 
ment  is  to  conclude  with  a  brief  exhibition  of  the  wonders 
of  that  great  modern  invention,  the  cinematograph  of 
Time. 

The  first  flickering  shadows  show  you  the  interior  of 
Watts  McHurdie's  shop,  and  as  your  eyes  take  in  the 
dancing  shapes,  you  discern  the  parliament  in  session. 
Colonel  Martin  F.  Culpepper  is  sitting  there  with  Watts 
McHurdie,  reading  and  re-reading  for  the  fourth  and  fifth 
time,  in  the  peculiar  pride  that  authorship  has  in  listening 
to  the  reverberation  of  its  own  eloquence,  the  brand-new 
copy  of  the  second  edition  of  "  The  Complete  Poetical  and 
Philosophical  Works  of  Watts  McHurdie,  with  Notes  and 
a  Biographical  Appreciation  by  Martin  F.  Culpepper,  '  C  ' 
Company,  Second  Regiment  K.V."  The  colonel,  with 
his  thumb  in  the  book,  pokes  the  fire  in  the  stove,  and  sits 
down  again  to  drink  his  joy  unalloyed.  Watts  is  working 
on  a  saddle,  but  his  arms  and  his  hands  are  not  what  they 
were  in  the  old  days  when  his  saddlery  won  first  prize 
year  after  year  at  the  Kansas  City  Fair.  So  he  puffs  and 
fusses  and  sighs  his  way  through  his  morning's  work. 
Sometimes  the  colonel  reads  aloud  a  line  from  a  verse,  or 
a  phrase  from  the  Biography  —  more  frequently  from  the 
Biography  —  and  exclaims,  "  Genius,  Watts,  genius,  gen- 

428 


A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  429 

ius!  "  But  Watts  McHurdie  makes  no  reply.  As  his  old 
eyes  —  quicker  than  his  old  fingers  —  see  the  sad  work 
they  are  making,  his  heart  sinks  within  him. 

"  Listen,  Watts,"  cries  the  colonel.  "  How  do  you  like 
this,  you  old  skeezicks  ?  "  and  the  colonel  reads  a  stanza  full 
of  "  lips  "  and  "  slips,"  "  eyes  "  and  "  tries,"  "  desires  "  and 
"  fires,"  and  "  darts  "  and  "  hearts." 

The  little  white-haired  old  man  leans  forward  eagerly 
to  catch  it  all.  But  his  shoulders  slump,  and  he  draws  a 
long,  tired  breath  when  the  colonel  has  finished. 

"  Man  —  man,"  he  cries,  "  what  a  saddle  I  •  could  make 
when  I  wrote  that!  "  And  he  turns  wearily  to  his  task 
again. 

Oscar  Fernald  paces  in  busily,  and  in  half  an  hour 
Lycurgus  Mason,  who  has  been  thrown  out  of  the  current 
of  life,  drifts  into  his  place  in  the  back-water,  and  the 
parliament  is  ready  for  business.  They  see  Gabriel  Car- 
nine  totter  by,  chasing  after  pennies  to  add  to  his  little 
pile.  The  bell  tinkles,  and  the  postman  brings  a  letter. 
McHurdie  opens  it  and  says,  as  he  looks  at  the  heading: 

"  It's  from  old  Jake.  It  is  to  all  of  us,"  he  adds  as  he 
looks  at  the  top  of  the  sheet  of  letter  paper.  He  takes  off  his 
apron  and  ceremoniously  puts  on  his  coat;  then  seats  him 
self,  and  unfolding  the  sheet,  begins  at  the  very  top  to 
read:  — 

"NATIONAL  SOLDIERS'  HOME, 

"  LEAVENWORTH,  KANSAS, 

"March  11,  1909. 

"TV>  THE  MEMBERS  OF  McHuRDiE's  PARLIAMENT, 

"  Gents  and  Comrades :  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  this  bright  spring 
morning  to  tell  you  that  I  arrived  here  safe,  this  side  up  with  care, 
glass,  be  careful,  Saturday  morning,  and  I  am  willing  to  compromise 
my  chances  for  heaven,  which  Father  Van  Sandt  being  a  Dutchman 
always  regarded  as  slim,  for  a  couple  of  geological  ages  of  this.  I  hope 
you  are  the  same,  but  you  are  not.  Given  a  few  hundred  white 
nighties  for  us  to  wear  by  day,  and  a  dozen  or  two  dagoes  playing  on 
harps,  and  this  would  be  my  idea  of  Heaven.  The  meals  that  we  do 
have  —  tell  Oscar  that  when  I  realize  what  eating  is,  what  roast  beef 
can  be,  cut  thin  and  rare  and  dripping  with  gravy  —  it  makes  me  wonder 
if  the  days  when  I  boarded  at  the  Thayer  House  might  not  be  counted 
as  part  of  the  time  I  must  do  in  the  fireworks.  And  the  porcelean 


430  A   CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

bath  tubs,  and  the  white  clean  beds,  and  the  music  of  the  band,  and 
the  free  tobacco  —  here  I  raise  my  Ebenezer,  as  the  Colonel  sings 
down  in  his  heretic  church ;  here  I  put  my  standard  down. 

"  Well,  Watts,  I  hear  the  news  about  Nelly.  We've  known  it  was 
coming  for  a  year,  but  that  doesn't  make  it  easier.  Why  don't  you 
come  up  here,  Comrade  —  we  are  all  lonesome  up  here,  and  it  doesn't 
make  the  difference.  Well,  John  Barclay,  the  reformed  pirate,  Presi 
dent  of  the  Exchange  National  Bank,  and  general  all-round  municipal 
reformer,  was  over  in  Leavenworth  last  week  attending  the  Bankers' 
Convention,  or  something,  and  he  came  to  see  me,  as  though  he  hadn't 
bid  me  good-by  at  the  train  two  days  before.  But  he  said  things  were 
going  on  at  the  Ridge  about  the  same,  and  being  away  from  home,  he 

frew  confidential,  and  he  told  me  Lige  Bemis  had  lost  all  his  money 
ucking  the  board  of  trade  —  did  you  know  that?  If  not,  it  isn't  so, 
and  I  never  told  you.  John  showed  me  the  picture  of  little  John  B. 
Ward  —  as  likely  a  looking  yearling  as  I  ever  saw.  Well,  I  must  close. 
Remember  me  to  all  inquiring  friends  and  tell  them  Comrade  Dolan 
is  lying  down  by  the  still  waters." 

And  now  the  screen  is  darkened  for  a  moment  to  mark 
the  passage  of  months  before  we  are  given  another  peep 
into  the  parliament.  It  is  May  —  a  May  morning  that 
every  one  of  these  old  men  will  remember  to  his  death. 
The  spring  rise  of  the  Sycamore  has  flooded  the  lowlands. 
The  odour  of  spring  is  in  the  air.  In  the  parliament  are 
lilacs  in  a  sprinkling  pot  —  a  great  armful  of  lilacs,  sent  by 
Molly  Culpepper.  The  members  who  are  present  are 
talking  of  the  way  John  Barclay  has  sloughed  off  his  years, 
and  Watts  is  saying  :  — 

"  Boys  will  be  boys  ;  I  knew  him  forty  years  ago  when 
he  was  at  least  a  hundred  years  older,  and  twice  as  wise." 

"  He  hasn't  missed  a  ball  game  — -either  foot-ball  or  base 
ball — for  nearly  two  years  now,"  ventures  Fernald.  "And 
yell !  Say,  it's  something  terrible." 

McHurdie  turns  on  the  group  with  his  glasses  on  his 
forehead.  "  Don't  you  know  what's  a-happening  to  John  ?  " 
he  asks.  "  Well,  I  know.  Whoever  wrote  the  Bible  was 
a  pretty  smart  man.  I've  found  that  out  in  seventy-five 
years  —  especially  the  Proverbs,  and  I've  been  thinking 
some  of  the  Testament."  He  smiles.  "There's  something 
in  it.  It  says,  '  Except  ye  come  as  a  little  child,  ye  shall 
in  no  wise  enter  the  Kingdom.'  That's  it  —  that's  it.  I 
don't  claim  to  know  rightly  what  the  kingdom  may  be, 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN  431 

but  John's  entering  it.  And  I'll  say  this  :  John's  been  a 
long  time  getting  in,  but  now  that  he's  there,  he's  having 
the  de'el  of  a  fine  time."  •• 

And  on  the  very  words  General  Ward  comes  bursting 
into  the  room,  forgetful  of  his  years,  with  tragedy  in  his 
face.  The  bustle  and  clatter  of  that  morning  in  the  town 
have  passed  over  the  men  in  the  parliament.  They  have 
not  heard  the  shouts  of  voices  in  the  street,  nor  the  sound 
of  footsteps  running  towards  the  river.  But  even  their 
dim  eyes  see  the  horror  in  the  general's  face  as  he  gasps 
for  breath. 

"  Boys,  boys,"  he  exclaims.  "  My  God,  boys,  haven't  you 
heard  —  haven't  you  heard  ?  "  And  as  their  old  lips  are 
slow  to  answer,  he  cries  out,  "  John's  dead  —  John  Bar 
clay's  drowned  —  drowned  —  gave  his  life  trying  to  save 
Trixie  Lee  out  there  on  a  tree  caught  in  the  dam." 

The  news  is  so  sudden,  so  stunning,  that  the  old  men 
sit  there  for  a  moment,  staring  wide-eyed  at  the  general. 
McHurdie  is  the  first  to  find  his  voice. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  he  says. 

"  I  don't  know  —  no  one  seems  to  know  exactly,"  replies 
the  general.  And  then  in  broken  phrases  he  gives  them 
the  confused  report  that  he  has  gathered:  how  some  one 
had  found  Trixie  Lee  clinging  to  a  tree  caught  in  the  cur 
rent  of  the  swollen  river  just  above  the  dam,  and  calling 
for  help,  frantic  with  fear;  how  a  crowd  gathered,  as 
crowds  gather,  and  the  outcry  brought  John  Barclay  run 
ning  from  his  house  near  by;  how  he  arrived  to  find  men 
discussing  ways  of  reaching  the  woman  in  the  swift  cur 
rent,  while  her  grip  was  loosening  and  her  cries  were 
becoming  fainter.  Then  the  old  spirit  in  John  Barclay, 
that  had  saved  the  county-seat  for  Sycamore  Ridge,  came 
out  for  the  last  time.  His  skiff  was  tied  to -a  tree  on  the 
bank  close  at  hand.  A  boy  was  sent  running  to  the 
nearest  house  for  a  clothes-line.  When  he  returned,  John 
was  in  the  skiff,  with  the  oars  in  hand.  He  passed  an 
end  of  the  line  to  the  men,  and  without  a  word  in 
answer  to  their  protests,  began  to  pull  out  against  the 
current.  It  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  was  sweeping 


432  A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN 

him  past  the  woman,  when  he  stood  up,  measured  the  dis 
tance  with  his  eye,  and  threw  the  line  so  it  fell  squarely 
across  her  shoulders.  Some  one  said  that  as  the  skiff  shot 
over  the  dam,  John,  still  standing  up,  had  a  smile  on  his 
face,  and  that  he  waved  his  hand  to  the  crowd  with  a 
touch  of  his  old  bravado. 

The  general  paused  before  going  on  with  the  story. 

"  They  sent  me  to  tell  his  mother  —  the  woman  who 
had  borne  him,  suckled  him,  reared  him,  lost  him,  and 
found  him  again." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ? "  asked  Watts,  as  the  general 
hesitated. 

The  general  moistened  his  lips  and  went  on.  "  She 
stood  staring  at  me  for  one  dreadful  minute,  and  then  she 
asked,  4How  did  he  die,  Philemon?'  4  He  died  saving  a 
woman  from  drowning,'  I  told  her.  4  Did  he  save  her  ?  ' 
—  that  was  what  she  asked,  still  standing  stiff  and  motion 
less.  4  Yes,'  I  said.  4  She  was  only  Trixie  Lee  —  a  bad 
woman  —  a  bad  woman,  Mrs.  Barclay.'  And  Mary  Bar 
clay  lifted  her  long,  gaunt  arms  halfway  above  her  head 
and  cried  :  4  Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 
of  the  Lord.  I  must  have  an  hour  with  God  now,  Phile 
mon,'  she  said  over  her  shoulder  as  she  left  me;  'don't  let 
them  bother  me.'  Then  she  walked  unbent  and  unshaken 
up  the  stairs." 

So  John  Barclay,  who  tried  for  four  years  and  more  to 
live  by  his  faith,  was  given  the  opportunity  to  die  for  it, 
and  went  to  his  duty  with  a  glad  heart. 

We  will  give  our  cinematograph  one  more  whirl.  A 
day,  a  week,  a  month,  have  gone,  and  we  may  glimpse  the 
parliament  for  the  last  time.  Watts  McHurdie  is  reading 
aloud,  slowly  and  rather  painfully,  a  news  item  from  the 
Banner.  Two  vacant  chairs  are  formally  backed  to  the 
wall,  and  in  a  third  sits  General  Ward.  At  the  end  of  a 
column-long  article  Watts  drones  out  :  — 

"  And  there  was  considerable  adverse  comment  in  the 
city  over  the  fact  that  the  deceased  was  sent  here  for 
burial  from  the  National  Soldiers'  Home  at  Leavenworth, 


A   CERTAIN  RICH   MAN  433 

in  a  shabby,  faded  blue  army  uniform  of  most  ancient 
vintage.  Surely  this  great  government  can  afford  better 
shrouds  than  that  for  its  soldier  dead." 

Watts  lays  down  the  paper  and  wipes  his  spectacles,  and 
finally  he  savs :  — 

"  And  Neal  wrote  that  ?  " 

"  And  Neal  wrote  that,"  replies  the  general. 

"And  was  born  and  bred  in  the  Ridge,"  complains 
McHurdie. 

"  Born  and  bred  in  the  Ridge,"  responds  the  general. 

Watts  puts  on  his  glasses  and  fumbles  for  some  piece  of 
his  work  on  the  bench.  Then  he  shakes  his  head  sadly 
and  says,  after  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "  Well,  it's  a  new 
generation,  General,  a  new  generation." 

There  follows  a  silence,  during  which  Watts  works  on 
mending  some  bit  of  harness,  and  the  general  reads  the 
evening  paper.  The  late  afternoon  sun  is  slanting  into 
the  shop.  At  length  the  general  speaks. 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  "  but  it's  a  fine  town  after  all.  It  was 
•  orth  doing.  I  wake  up  early  these  days,  and  often  of  a 
fine  spring  morning  I  go  out  to  call  on  the  people  on  the 

McHurdie  nods  his  comprehension. 

"  Yes,"  continues  the  general,  "  and  I  tell  them  all 
•bout  the  new  improvements.  There  are  more  of  us  out 
Oil  the  Hill  now  than  in  town,  Watts ;  I  spent  some  time 
with  David  Frye  and  Henry  Schnitzler  and  Jim  Lord  Lee 
this  morning,  and  called  on  General  Hendricks  for  a  little 
while." 

"  Did  you  find  him  sociable  ?  "  asks  the  poet,  grinning 
up  from  his  bench. 

"  Oh,  so-so  —  about  as  usual,"  answers  the  general. 

.."  He  was  always  a  proud  one,"  comments  Watts. 
;c  Will  Henry  Schnitzler  be  stiff-necked  about  his  monu 
ment  there  by  the  gate  ?  "  asks  the  little  Scotchman. 

"Inordinately,  Watts,  inordinately!     The  pride  of  that 

an  is  something  terrible." 

(The  two  old  men  chuckle  at  the  foolery  of  the  moment. 
The  general  folds  away  the  evening  paper  and  rises  to  go. 

2F 


A  CERTAIN   RICH   MAN 

"  Watts,"  he  says,  "  I  have  lived  seventy-eight  years  to 
find  out  just  one  thing." 

"And  what  will  that  be?  "  asks  the  harness  maker. 

"  This,"  beams  the  old  man,  as  he  puts  his  spectacle  case 
in  his  black  silk  coat ;  "  that  the  more  we  give  in  this 
world,  the  more  we  take  from  it ;  and  the  more  we  keep 
for  ourselves,  the  less  we  take."  And  smiling  at  his  para 
dox,  he  goes  through  the  shop  into  the  sunset. 

The  air  is  vocal  with  the  home-bound  traffic  of  the  day. 
Cars  are  crowded  ;  delivery  wagons  rattle  home  ;  buggies 
clatter  by  on  the  pavements ;  one  hears  the  whisper  of  a 
thousand  feet  treading  the  hot,  crowded  street.  But  Watts 
works  on.  So  let  us  go  in  to  bid  him  a  formal  good-by. 
The  tinkling  door-bell  will  bring  out  a  bent  little  old  man, 
with  grimy  fingers,  who  will  put  up  his  glasses  to  peer  at 
our  faces,  and  who  will  pause  a  moment  to  try  to  recollect 
us.  He  will  talk  about  John  Barclay. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  knew  him  well,"  says  McHurdie  ;  "  there 
by  the  door  hangs  a  whip  he  made  as  a  boy.  We  used  to 
play  on  that  accordion  in  the  case  there.  Oh,  yes,  yes, 
he  was  well  thought  of  ;  we  are  a  neighbourly  people  — 
maybe  too  much  so.  Yes,  yes,  he  died  a  brave  death,  and 
the  papers  seemed  to  think  his  act  of  sacrifice  showed  the 
world  a  real  man  —  and  he  was  that,  —  he  was  surely  that, 
was  John ;  yes,  he  was  a  real  man.  You  ask  about  hi8 
funeral  ?  It  was  a  fine  one  —  a  grand  funeral  —  every 
hack  in  town  out  —  every  high-stepping  horse  out ;  and 
the  flowers  —  from  all  over  the  world  they  came  —  the 
flowers  were  most  beautiful.  But  there  are  funerals  and 
funerals.  There  was  Martin  Culpepper's  —  not  so  many 
hacks,  not  so  many  high-stepping  horses,  but  the  old  bug 
gies,  and  the  farm  wagons,  and  the  little  nigger  carts  — 
and  man,  man  alive,  the  tears,  the  tears  I  " 


HOME  USE 

CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
MAIN  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 
1 -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405. 
6-month  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books 

to  Circulation  Desk. 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior 

to  due  date. 

ALL  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  RECALL  7  DAYS 
AFTER  DATE  CHECKED  OUT. 


RECD 


DEPT 


APH 


DEC  2  b 


LD21-A30m-7,'73 
( R2275S10 )  476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


